The Third Bride
by Nancy T
Summary: KU AU 2! Sam's a junior at the University of Kansas, Cas a grad student, Dean has graduated and is working for Bobby. Dean goes undercover in a cult to help a friend catch a murderer; Sam helps investigate and only almost gets stabbed once.
1. Chapter 1

_The television show "Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment, Inc._

.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a sequel to my story, "The Fifteenth Secret," but you don't have to read that to understand this story. Of course, I'm hoping you'll love this one so much that you'll immediately go read & review that one.

As with "The Fifteenth Secret," a lot of people helped in research. You can skip these acknowledgments if you want to jump right into the story, but I hope you'll come back and read them after you finish this chapter, because they were all vital. Major thank-yous to: Lori Brent, Administrative Clerk of the Lawrence Police Department; Heather at Arrow Rents; Stillman at Santa Fe Sign & Neon; Diane Amos, RN, of Shawnee Mission Medical Center; and most especially to Megan at the Upper Crust bakery in Overland Park (oh, if only all research involved cherry pie!); Officer Gary Mason, Public Information Officer of the Overland Park Police Department; Lt. Steve Lewis, Public Information Officer of the Douglas County Sheriff's Office (who not only patiently answered questions, but encouraged more questions!); William R. Lindsey, Graduate Director in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of Kansas (sorry, Dr. Lindsey, Cas is sticking with Bonhoeffer as a thesis topic); my brother Phil; Mom, who helped me figure out what Jess knows; and my fantastic friend Robyn, who gave me the whole starting idea for the story!

.

The sound of galumphing signaled Sam Winchester's rapid descent of the staircase in William Schuyler Scholarship Hall. "Hey, Ash!" he called cheerfully to the mullet-haired junior at the front desk. "Makin' a McDonald's run. Want anything?"

"Fries. And anything with caffeine. This night shift is gonna kill me, dude."

Sam grinned, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. "What are you talking about? You were up until like four a.m. last weekend playing Skyrim."

Ash looked as if, in his opinion, Sam's IQ had just halved. "That. Was. Skyrim."

"Yeah, of course. What was I thinking? No, don't bother, I'll get the money when – "

There was a knock on the glass door. Ash moved to one side as Sam turned, and they both saw a middle-aged man wearing a business suit. His eyes, behind brown-framed glasses, were intense, but his face was tired.

"Hey – " Sam's voice started out sounding cheerfully surprised, then dropped suddenly – "Mr. Moore?"

The man gave him a small smile and wave. "You know this guy?" Ash asked.

"Yeah, he's fine."

Ash pressed a button at the desk, and there was a buzzing noise. Al Moore let himself in and said, "Hi, Sam. Good to see you again."

"Good to see – Is Jess OK?"

"I don't know. That's the whole problem, isn't it? Is there someplace we could talk privately?"

Sam glanced over to a darkened room off the main lobby. "Yeah, sure, there."

The combined TV room-game room-library was normally quiet by 10 p.m. anyway, but on a Friday night with all but the most serious students out of the building, it was deserted. Sam flicked on the small overhead chandelier and led Al to one of the worn, overstuffed chairs. Sam dragged a chair over from a folding table by a crowded set of bookshelves and sat facing his guest. "What's goin' on?"

"Did you know that – those Lifeblood people – they're moving to New Mexico?"

Sam sighed a little. "Yeah. I saw it on their website."

"You've been keeping track."

"Sometimes."

Al lifted his head a little, looking directly at Sam. "I'm never going to see my daughter again."

"Oh – No, I really don't –"

"She said as much. She called. A couple of weeks ago. Said they were doing a big festival this weekend and she'd be there, everyone would, and wouldn't I like to come and meet – a messenger of God – and find out what her religion's all about, and we'd be so moved. I said I wanted to talk to her, but I wasn't interested in talking to any quack pretending to be God. I said her mom and I would be happy to take her to lunch or dinner, we could have some time alone. She yelled at me. Said what was the point in having time alone when I wasn't interested in the real her, just an image of a perfect daughter. She said a family accepts the real person, and we never accepted the real Jessica. She said her mom and I aren't her family anymore, Lifeblood is."

"That really does not sound like her."

Al leaned forward almost eagerly. "It doesn't, does it? That's what I've been saying all along. This cult has warped her mind, they've brainwashed her."

Sam shifted in his chair. "I don't know about that, Mr. Moore. From what I've read about them, yeah, they're pretty extreme on how bad money is, but other than that – I mean, they're not great, but they're not the worst. They're not dangerous."

"How would you know?"

"Well, they're not, you know, telling everyone that the world is gonna end and we should prepare to die, anything like that."

"On their website. How do you know what that son of a bitch is saying to them in private?"

"Well, I don't."

"I wrote him a letter, after Jessica called. I told him if he didn't send Jessica home, I'd get the IRS onto his tax-exempt status, hit him where it hurts. That's all he's interested in. Lures in the suckers with anti-money talk, but I bet he drives a Mercedes."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Sam said ruefully. "Did he answer?"

"Are you kidding? Nothing." Moore gave a broken sigh, his back bowed. "Carla blames me, says I alienated her. But it's not my fault. She was alienated by brainwashing, thought control. She thinks that she can think for herself, but she can't."

"Well, Mr. Moore, why don't you go to the festival tomorrow? You know, just see if she's there, maybe – tell her you don't get it, but you respect her choices, something like that. Just because she got pissed off once doesn't mean she's alienated for all time. Just show up, you know? See how it goes."

Al's back straightened, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, I'm going. That's why I'm here, Sam. I know you, I know how you feel about Jessica. I'm hoping you love her enough to help me with this."

"With what?"

Al's gaze shifted away from Sam and back. "You don't have to do anything. Just get her to talk to you someplace alone."

"And tell her – "

"Just, just pull her away from the group. We'll take it from there."

"We – " Sam's head lifted suddenly. "Who's 'we,' Mr. Moore?"

"A couple I found. They help cult members. They break the grip of the brainwashing."

Sam sounded astonished. "Involuntary deprogramming? I didn't think anyone did that anymore!"

"Well – If you look hard enough, you can find people."

"What kind of people?"

"They're not thugs, Sam. They're two ex-cult members. They know the techniques cults use to lock up someone's mind. The way he puts it, they rock the cage until it breaks and the mind is set free. I'll be there the whole time, Sam. Jessica won't be hurt. And one of them is a woman, so she can be there when Jessica needs to do anything private."

"You mean she follows her into the bathroom."

"They program these people to kill themselves if anyone gets them away from the religion, Sam! They – I – can't take the chance of leaving Jessica alone!"

Sam thought for a moment. "What does Mrs. Moore think about this?"

Al's gaze shifted again. "She's – Well, she says she's against it. She says it's a bad idea, but she hasn't tried to stop me. I think, in a corner of her mind, she's hoping it'll work. We've both been – Sam, we had a beautiful, smart daughter. You know Jessica. She had a mind of her own. She didn't care about religion. She was studying ecological biology – I mean, I never even heard about the field until she decided to major in it, and she's going to get a degree in it. We were so proud."

His head dropped again. Sam watched him quietly. After a moment, he raised his head and looked Sam in the eye.

"They took her away from us, Sam. I'm going to get her back. Will you help me?"

Sam sat back in his chair. "Y'know, Mr. Moore, I did a lot of research on cults. This was back when Jess broke up with me, and then she moved in with those guys. The thing is, the vast majority of people who join cults just leave 'em within two years. They had some kind of need, and for a while the cult filled it, and then they realize, no, it really doesn't anymore, and they leave."

"What need? Carla and I gave her – " Al shook his hand and head, erasing the question. "What about the ones who don't just leave?"

"Well, those are people who have a real problem with thinking for themselves. And it's like you said, Jess has a mind of her own. Yeah, she thinks they're great right now, but I have a feeling that sooner or later somebody's gonna come up with some doctrine that Jess just thinks is wrong, no matter how hard they try to get her to think otherwise." He gave a brief grin. "At which point, there'll be hell to pay in Lifeblood."

"I wish I could believe that."

"And just – and think about it this way. We're hoping Jess is gonna wind up resisting them, because no matter how indoctrinated she is, she has her own mind. OK. So if these deprogrammers grab her and try to browbeat her into dropping out of Lifeblood, isn't she going to feel like they're the indoctrinators? Isn't she just going to set her mind against everything you're wanting her to think?"

"But that's the whole point. Indoctrination against indoctrination, and her mind is freed."

"But suppose her mind gets freed, and she still chooses Lifeblood? Then you've – "

"She won't, I'm sure – "

"Then you've alienated her for sure. I mean, if the last time she saw you she got kidnapped by a deprogrammer, how is she gonna trust you again?"

"Once she's snapped out of it, she'll understand. She'll be grateful to us for getting her out of that. She won't feel like she was kidnapped. She'll feel like she was rescued."

Sam gave a brief smile. "I can see – "

"Like you rescued her," Al said with emphasis.

If he was hoping to win Sam over with that, there was no sign of success, as Sam's expression darkened slightly. But he finished the sentence he'd started. "I can see where Jess gets her stubbornness."

There was a moment's silence.

"And about that," Sam said. "Year and a half ago, a guy grabbed Jess, put handcuffs on her and tried to force her into a car. You really want to give her a flashback to that?"

"As I said, I'll be there. She'll know it's not – it's not the same thing."

"Except maybe mentally."

Another pause. Then Al said, "She's – she's probably – with, this guy, this Messenger. You know that."

Sam's teenage fidgeting belied the calm maturity of his words. "It's really – It's kind of unethical, Mr. Moore, for you to use the way I feel about Jess to try to get me to do something I think is wrong."

"You're not a father, Sam. You don't know. You could – use worse words than unethical, it wouldn't stop me. I'm not going to look my wife in the eye and tell her that I let an insane cult disappear with our child."

In the silence, they both seemed to realize that an impasse had been reached. Al stood, and Sam rose to follow him to the front door.

As he opened the door for Al, Sam took a final stab. "Just – why don't you just think about it for – "

"For God's sake, Sam." Moore sounded tired rather than angry. "What do you think I've been doing?"

He left, and Sam stared after him, watching him get into his car at the curb.

"Wooa." Ash's voice made Sam jump a bit and turn. "I didn't hear the words, but that sounded intense."

"It was. And now I've got to go do something first thing tomorrow that I really don't want to do."

After another moment, Sam shook his head and started for the staircase.

"Dude," Ash said plaintively. "Fries."

Sam gave a one-syllable laugh. "Yeah, sorry. And the guys are gonna be thinking I ate all their burgers. Back soon."

With a wave, he left.

.

Nick Munroe, the Messenger of God with the intense eyes and great smile, was pacing on the small stage, speaking to an audience of about thirty. Some of them lived in the house further up the slope from the storage building they were using as a chapel, some of them had come into town for the Festival on Saturday, some of them had just driven out to the old farm property for the chance to see him speak.

The men were mostly casually dressed; the women's tops differed, but almost all of them wore long skirts with ruffled hems and deep pockets. Most of the attendees, Munroe included, wore sterling silver necklaces with a simple red pendant shaped like a drop of blood.

"We are three times blessed by God!" he exclaimed, his gaze sweeping left to right and back again. "We have found such favor with Him that Lifeblood will be a national movement within two years!"

The audience applauded, a couple of them yelled, "Amen!" Nick stopped pacing and stood directly under one of the work lights strung across the building's ceiling. The light was harsh, but his smile seemed to mellow it. His backdrop was a ten-foot-wide, six-foot-high banner strung on a rod behind the lights. A huge red drop of blood, with a picture of the Earth centered in it, was in the middle of the banner; on the left side were the words "THE WORLD ENSLAVES," and on the right side, "PERFECTION SAVES."

Nick raised his index finger. "First, we already have a national presence. The New Mexico complex is being built largely because of loving support from our internet community. Max has subverted the technology of the Misled, bringing light into darkness and fearless agents to Lifeblood. Love to Max, everyone!"

A slight, short man half-stood and sat back down. His childlike face and premature balding made it hard to guess his age; his expression seemed locked into a permanent flinch, even as he gave a brief smile. A gaunt girl with scars on her wrists hugged him briefly as other hands reached toward him and voices called, "Love to you, Max!" "Thank you, Max!" One of the guys sitting in the back yelled, "You rock, Max!"

A lovely girl sitting in the front row looked around and then looked back toward the front. Although every other chair in the front row was occupied, no one had sat in the chairs on either side of her, and the speaker had not once made eye contact with her.

She had a length of large chain around her neck. It was about two feet long, attached at the ends with a padlock, with a couple of other locks on it like pendants from Jacob Marley. It was substantial, but didn't seem heavy enough to fully explain why, when everyone else there was echoing the Messenger's enthusiasm, she sat with her head bowed, her gaze on her folded hands in her lap.

Munroe raised two fingers, and the crowd quieted. "Second, plans for New Mexico are finalized and we will be moving there within the month!"

Brief cheers that subsided as Munroe said, "I know you'll all miss our gracious accommodations here – "

The congregation laughed. Even the girl with the chain yoke looked up and smiled, and two people nearby who'd been sneaking looks at her averted their eyes.

"There's a lot to be said for humble surroundings. But as you know, the Misled love physical beauty and comfort above all else. Our new meeting hall will nourish their spirits, our spacious kitchen and dining hall will nourish their bodies, and anyone who isn't already damned will be drawn to us like water to a sponge. Wait – " He looked up and around, playfully feigning confusion – "I don't – What's this? Who are these Lifeblood people I'm hearing about everywhere I go?" And, to laughter and applause, "The Misled of New Mexico won't know what hit them!"

Cheers, cutting off only when Munroe raised three fingers. "Third, we are not abandoning Lawrence. I've communed with God about my sorrow for this place, where godless faculty teach object-centered students in classes designed to make them desire high-income jobs and material reward. And, of course, He had the perfect answer. Clark will remain here, growing Lifeblood in Kansas even as we grow it in New Mexico!"

There were a couple of gasps that the Messenger apparently didn't notice. "I have no doubt that Clark will make this a flourishing outpost within a year, when we'll be growing a third and fourth outposts. We will bring hundreds, then thousands, to a life of meaning, winning the best of the best to a spirit-centered life, and the founders of each community will be blessed by God and praised by the people. Love to Clark!"

This time the cheers and claps on the back accompanied cries of, "We'll miss you, Clark!" Clark, a pleasant-faced, compact man with a touch of gray in his hair, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, smiled steadily at Munroe as he stood briefly, and Munroe smiled back.

Then Munroe raised both hands. "This makes our Festival of True Joy this weekend even more important, the last we'll celebrate with Clark. I don't want to – "

He paused, and his eyes were suddenly shining with tears in the harsh light.

"We must do mission work, of course. But I fear for my people, so many of you out among the Misled, where materialism is a non-stop temptation. You are strong. I know. But the Devil prides himself on breaking those with strength. And losing any of you – "

His voice broke. There was utter silence in the building.

"Losing any of you would break, not only my heart, but God's."

A middle-aged woman in the front row, three chairs down from the girl with the chain, spoke clearly. "Anyone who'd be tempted by materialism doesn't deserve any part of God's heart."

There was loud applause, cries of "Don't be afraid, Messenger!" "We won't fail you!"

Munroe smiled, taking a deep breath, and looked at the middle-aged woman. "Sue-Ann, you could live in Saks Fifth Avenue and be unmoved by materialism," he said with a smile, and there was laughter.

Then he set his jaw. "Pairing will be in effect, of course. Don't lose track of your partners. Protection of your souls is paramount. But also, always remember that the Misled are fearful people, and fearful people are the ones most likely to resort to violence. Some of you, like me, have experienced the violence outside before, and all of you know about the threats we've received. Useless, of course. This movement will never be stopped, even if martyrs are made. Our Festivals and our other mission work are the first few steps. At the end of the journey, at the end of the thousand miles, lies a world of inner peace, of joy, of people caring for each other and not for things, a world of salvation."

He closed his eyes. "Thank you, Lord, for choosing me as your Messenger. Thank you, Lord, for the brilliant and healing message. Thank you, Lord, for these your agents, who will send the life blood of joyful spirituality coursing into this sad lost community. Thank you, Lord!"

His voice emphasized the last three words, and the congregants recognized a cue. "Thank you, Lord!" they shouted back, and Munroe cried, "Bless us, Lord!", and "Bless us, Lord!" was echoed as Munroe called, "Protect us from our enemies!"

"Protect us from our enemies!" the congregation shouted, and the sound, even from the relatively small group, resonated against the walls and ceiling.

Munroe opened his eyes, but stayed still until the congregation was equally still, knowing there was something else but not what.

"Someone who has no name has asked to speak to this meeting," he said quietly, "and I have granted permission."

Someone took in an audible breath as the young woman with the chain around her neck stood. She looked straight ahead as she stepped up on the platform, Munroe moving to one side.

When the girl began speaking, her gaze was over the heads of the crowd, but after a couple of sentences she was looking directly at first one, then the other of them. "Please forgive me. I was – Well, I was wrong. I know what I said was flying in the face of God's message, God's Messenger, and all I can say is that it seemed right at the time.

"I've been trying to understand, over the last nine days, how it could seem right. And I finally realized – this is the biggest temptation. It's not pretty clothes or cars or drugs or power. The most tempting thing to hold onto is your own pride, your own stubborn self, putting yourself up against God's Messenger and saying you know better. That pride, that – stubborn self, is as much a possession as a fur coat or a cell phone. And it's as meaningless in the long run. Giving is what's meaningful. Giving up yourself, giving – giving faith, that even what you don't understand, is right.

"And Lifeblood is meaningful. You, you are meaningful. It's hurt so much, not being able to talk with you, or really be with you, walking past you like I don't exist. You're my family. I can't bear to be without my family."

Unspectacular tears were sliding down her cheeks. "I understand why it was necessary. I do. I needed to realize that the movement, our message, is so much more important than my personal – opinion." She said the word with disgust. "I do realize that now. Please – " She half-turned, facing Munroe – "please forgive me. Please call me by my name again. Please take me back."

There was a slight, dramatic pause. Then Munroe said, "You are forgiven."

There was a little ripple of applause, quickly muffled, as if the occasion were too important to be treated like a sports event. Three women – Sue-Ann, a lithe brunette with a slightly amused expression, and a woman who looked faded although she was only about forty – rose and went to the front of the room, then back behind the banner.

The brunette brought out two large pails of water, smiling a little as she tried to carry them without splashing. Sue-Ann brought out a third pail, and the faded woman brought out a large empty washtub and a white sheet folded over her arm. These were set on the old concrete floor in front of the platform, near a drain in the center of the building.

As this happened, Munroe went to the penitent and lifted the chain from her neck, taking pains not to catch it in her long blonde hair. She stepped off the platform beside the washtub, toed off her sandals, and removed her skirt and blouse. Now nude, she stepped into the washtub and stood before the congregation, her head bowed.

Sue-Ann picked up one of the pails of water and dumped it so sharply right over the girl's head that she flinched a little. "Your mind is cleansed," Sue-Ann said.

The brunette poured the second pail of water over the girl far more gently. "Your body is cleansed."

The faded woman, her joyful smile belying her sad eyes, poured a third pail so excitedly that about a third of it missed the penitent and splattered the front-row congregants. "Your spirit is cleansed. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Welcome back, Jess!" Munroe said, and now the applause rose unabated as the girl wiped her face with her hands, laughing and crying at once, and the brunette wrapped her in the white sheet. Jess Moore stepped out of the washtub, clutching the sheet, and people stood, beginning to congratulate and move toward her.

Then everyone stood where they were or backed up a bit. Munroe had descended from the platform and took Jess' face between his hands, gazing into her eyes.

"Welcome back," he said. "Bride of my mind."

As he kissed her, there were cheers.

.

At a corner of South Park nearest Massachusetts Street, the main drag through downtown Lawrence, three young men had just finished assembling a small stage with a microphone on a stand. To one side, Max was making adjustments to a simple sound system. A tent with a shading top but no sides was being erected, as was a booth where you could pitch balls at targets for prizes of cupcakes and cookies. At a long table, Sue-Ann and the lithe brunette were pulling apart six-packs of soda cans and sinking them in coolers of ice. Although it was 9:30 in the morning and the festival hadn't officially begun yet, Clark, of course, had already found a potential convert. There were several setups, under and near the tent, of café tables bearing Lifeblood literature with two chairs each, and Clark was sitting at one of the tables with an intense-looking young woman, listening to her with absorption.

"Give me a sound check," Max called to a heavy-set guy who had just put the final bolt in the stage.

The heavy-set guy stood before the microphone. "Testing, one two three. And I – aye – aye – aye – aye will always love youuuuuu – "

All the Lifeblood members nearby laughed. Munroe walked around the side of the stage. "I think you missed your calling, Dirk."

The heavy-set guy smiled bashfully. "I kinda think I didn't, Messenger." He made as if to hand the microphone down to Munroe, but the leader waved it away.

"I'm going to let Clark give the opening statement, and then the band – Does someone have a copy of the program?"

Five people nearby instantly scrabbled in their pockets in a race to give Munroe the program first. The exception was Max, who suddenly started toward a young man making his way toward Munroe. "Hey. Whoa. Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Sam Winchester said, smiling genially as if to make up for the fact that he was looking down about six inches into Max's face. "I'm looking for one of your members, Jess Moore. I was hoping she'd be here."

"She's not. Sorry."

"You're – Sam, aren't you?" Munroe asked. "You came to a couple of meetings with her."

"Yeah. That was about a year ago. You've got a good memory." Sam's tone was ingratiating.

"My focus is on people, not objects. Why were you looking for Jess?"

Munroe sounded perfectly friendly, but Max, Dirk, and a couple of other young men stood still, watching Sam as if they expected him to pull a gun.

"I have something private I've got to tell her. It's not – I'm not – This doesn't have anything to do with – I'm not trying to get her away. From here. Or anything. But this is a personal message, and it's urgent."

Munroe raised his eyebrows. "Does it have to do with her parents? Or siblings?"

"No. Well, yeah, in a way. Look, can I just talk to her for three minutes? That's all I need."

"Well, as Max said, she's not here. Depending on – "

"Will she be here later? I thought – "

"Depending on the nature of the message, I'd be willing to convey – "

"You can't. I can't tell this to anyone but her."

There was a moment of silence. Sam took a breath. "I thought everyone in Lifeblood was going to be at the festival. I mean, on your website, you're even encouraging members from other states to come to Lawrence for it."

"We're encouraging all people to come to the festival," Munroe said calmly. "It's a Festival of True Joy, showing all men and women that it's possible for the spirit to be elevated without degrading the body or mind. Why don't you stay and listen to a couple of the speakers, Sam? Have some refreshments. Jess may be coming by later."

"I have a lot more things to do today than hang around at your carnival waiting for someone who might not show up. Look, I know you think that this – " Sam gestured – "is the only important thing right now, but I'm telling you, what I have to tell Jess – "

"It is important!" Dirk jumped down from the stage, landing heavily, and faced Sam. "You know, you don't have to stand here and sneer. You can just go away."

"I'd love to. Believe me. Let me warn Jess about this thing – "

"Warn?" Munroe said sharply. "Is Jess in danger? Because if so, we all deserve to know. She's part of our family."

"Look, I'm not one of your cultists. I don't have to tell you everything I know about everyone. Some things – "

He stopped, confused, as the growing band of Lifeblood members around him gave a mockingly shocked "Ooooo."

"Cult! The dreaded word." Munroe looked around at them with a smile. "The beginning and end of all argument. Jess must be in danger with us, because we're a cult." He looked at Sam. "You've given yourself away, Sam. We know where you're coming from now. Your words will have no power here, with Jess or with anyone else. You might as well go."

He turned, gesturing to the people erecting a large "Festival of True Joy" sign. "I'd like to have the sign – "

"Hey, believe it or not – " Sam said, stepping forward and touching Munroe's shoulder.

Dirk lunged forward and shoved Sam sharply. Sam fell on his butt and two other men stood, one on either side of Dirk, between Sam and Munroe. Dirk looked down at Sam with his fists doubled.

Sam's irate expression was gone in a moment. "You know what, fine." He stood, brushing dirt off his hands. "It's not supposed to be any of my business anymore anyway."

He walked to the six-year-old black Charger parked at the curb. Munroe walked over to the people putting up the sign to tell them how he wanted it placed, while Dirk and the other two impromptu bodyguards watched Sam drive away.

"Dirk," Munroe called quietly, and Dirk hurried to him.

"Go check on Jess. Don't tell her what happened. Just see if everything's all right with her."

Dirk ran across the park as the sign went up and Lifeblood members went back to their jobs.

.

There was a sign over the door of the small bakery that read simply, "Baked.", period included. Dean Winchester pushed open the door, grinning in anticipation. The bell over the door rang, and the dark-haired young woman at the counter, whose blouse was unbuttoned to a perilous point, turned and smiled. "Is it 6:15 already?"

"I'm off today. I was picking up some stuff downtown and I couldn't resist stopping by."

"Ah, how I wish it was me you couldn't resist, but I know it's only the pie."

"Sorry, Casey. My heart's spoken for, but my stomach is free."

She laughed as he zeroed in on a temperature-controlled case that held whole pies and slices. "Is that – banana cream?"

"Yes it is."

Dean shot a quick glance skyward and mouthed, "Thank you." Casey laughed again, pulling open the case's door. "Two slices to go?"

"For banana cream? No ma'am. A whole pie."

Casey put the pie on top of the counter and began assembling a box as Dean looked around the tiny customer area of the bakery, just barely big enough to hold two small tables with chairs and a rack of free publications. "I passed by the park coming here, and it's really busy. What's going on, do you know?"

"It's a festival. Music, refreshments, games, like that. There's a big mural that anyone can paint on. I was over there earlier."

"Kind of for the kids?"

"Well, I had fun there, and I'm no kid. I think they're wrapping up now, but it's on again tomorrow. You should go."

"Maybe I will. I understand there's a good place to grab a snack nearby. How much?"

He paid for the pie and, as she gave him his change, she leaned forward and murmured, "Blueberry tomorrow."

"Ohh," Dean said in a low tone, narrowing his eyes. "Temptress."

She chuckled. "G'night, Dean."

"Have a good evening, Casey."

He moved the other groceries from the front seat to the floor of the Impala, rested the pie on the front seat with care that would have been appropriate for placing a child in a car seat, and drove the mile and a half to his apartment. The reusable fabric grocery bags had strong straps, so he looped those over his shoulder and carried the pie up the stairs with both hands, nestling it in the crook of his left arm as he turned the key and pushed open the door with his right.

A burst of male laughter from the combined kitchen and dining room was the first thing he heard, even before he had the door fully open. " – not the kind of thing I expect to run across in Bonhoeffer's work," Cas was saying as Dean walked in. "Hey, Dean!"

"But you wanted the vernacular and the idioms," said the other man sitting at the dining table. His English-accented voice sounded sardonic. "Sexual humor is in the vernacular of all languages."

"Dean, this is Balthazar DiAngelo," Cas said. "He's going to be my German tutor. Balthazar, this is Dean."

"Pleased to meet you," Dean said, putting the pie on the table. "What do your friends call you?"

"Balthazar, actually." Balthazar glanced for a just a moment at the hand Dean extended to him before shaking it, and Dean gave a subtle but self-conscious second glance at the grease stains he hadn't quite been able to get out from under his fingernails last night.

"He's an instructor in the German Department," Cas said. "My thesis advisor suggested him when I said I had qualms about learning German."

"I thought Rosetta Stone was working pretty well for you," Dean said. He put the pie in the refrigerator and began putting away the other groceries as Balthazar said, "Cas is reading the works of a mid-twentieth-century theologian. He's going to need a depth of understanding beyond street signs and menus."

Putting a can of Beefaroni into the cupboard, Dean shot another look at Balthazar. He was attractive, if you liked the polished sophisticated type: lean and long-fingered, with a little beard. His shirt, a deep powder blue, was open enough to show the glint of a single, simple gold chain below his throat. A chunky gold ring with a blue stone was on his right hand.

Cas said, "And at the moment I'm about at the level of Dorothy Parker. She wrote once, 'I can read French at glacier speed, muffing only the key word of every sentence.' That's pretty much where I am."

"Not really," Balthazar said. "You've made remarkable progress on your own. Dean, I don't know if you realize how intellectually gifted your partner is."

Dean drew in and let out a breath. "Yes, I'm aware of how smart Cas is. Cas, I'm going to go watch TV in the bedroom. Let me know if I need to turn down the volume."

"We're almost finished anyway," Cas said. "Dinner at seven?"

"Sounds good."

Dean went into the bedroom, which was dominated by the king-size bed. "There's not gonna be room for much else," he'd said to Cas when they'd bought it. Cas had shot him a sly sideways glance: "But that's a good thing, isn't it?"

Dean grinned, took off his shoes, sat on the bed with his back propped against the headboard, used the remote to find a 6:30 newscast, and watched it with the volume low. He heard another burst of laughter from the dining room; then low voices, then the voices growing more distinct as they moved into the front room. Cas said goodbye and the front door closed.

Cas came into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and dropped down on the bed beside Dean. They watched for a moment as a weather forecaster enthused about a front.

"Balthazar can be a bit much," Cas said.

"Really?"

Cas gave a flicker of a smile. "It's exactly what I need, though. For a while I was thinking about changing my thesis topic, the language aspect unnerved me so much."

"You know what. You're the one who doesn't realize how intellectually gifted you are."

"Thanks," Cas said, and put his arm around Dean's shoulders.

"Where do you want to go for your birthday?" Dean asked.

"Marienburger Allee in Berlin."

"Um. Second choice?"

"Chez Yasu for dinner, over in Topeka. I'd like to see the Brown vs. Board of Education building in the afternoon."

"And the Curry murals in the Capitol. Gotta see them again."

"Absolutely."

"I got us banana cream pie for dessert."

Cas shook his head. "I've gained fifty pounds in the six months since that place opened."

Dean laughed. "Ya have not either!"

"At least fifty. Another six months, you're going to have to roll me to class."

"Not a problem. We'll fix you up with a nice Hemi, four on the floor – "

The grin dropped off Dean's face as he sat up sharply. Cas looked at the TV and his expression became grave.

The female reporter was standing in front of a sign that read "Festival of True Joy," with the Lifeblood logo in the center. When Dean turned up the volume she was saying, " – spiritual movement or simply a cult."

Cas rolled his eyes a bit. They ran a clip of a girl identified on screen simply as "Gloria – Lifeblood Member." She was gaunt, with wide cuff bracelets on both wrists. There were numerous people gathered around a stage in the background where a band was playing. "Cult is just, it's a boogie-man word," she said. "It's the beginning and end of all argument. Lifeblood is going to save a lot of people. People who are saved don't care what you call them."

"We are the richest society in the history of the world." Another clip, Munroe on stage, microphone in hand, his gaze locked onto his audience. "Think of that! Of all human societies that ever existed, we are the wealthiest. So – We must be the happiest, right?" He paused to let a chuckle run through the crowd. "We act like that. We act like things, possessions, will give us peace and – "

An abrupt, edited cut, and the reporter was once again on screen. "The Lifeblood fair lasts one more day. How long Lifeblood will last in Lawrence, with its charismatic founder in another state, is anyone's guess. Ashley Frank, reporting from South Park in Lawrence."

"Thank you, Ashley. Police are still investigating – "

Dean muted the sound and looked at Cas. "Still not gettin' it."

"We may never. As I said, from the way that Jess was talking the last couple of times I saw her, it seems like Munroe made her aware of a spiritual emptiness she hadn't acknowledged before."

"So go to church!" Dean said, as if he were arguing with Jess herself. "Or do volunteer work or something. But how does she figure that dropping out in the middle of sophomore year – not to mention dumping Sam, who treated her like she was made out of gold – "

"You know this had nothing to do with Sam. I think even Sam's starting to believe it. There was some lack Jess felt in herself, and it wasn't something that a boyfriend could fill."

Dean shook his head.

"Sam seems to be getting along better," Cas said.

"Yeah. You know, he's doin' all the right things, seeing other girls, keeping up his GPA, but – it's just being hard for him to get past it."

Cas nodded.

"Makes you wonder," Dean said.

Cas withdrew his arm so that he could turn to look Dean in the eye. "But there wouldn't be any point, Dean. Sure, one of us might find something else or someone else tomorrow, theoretically. Also, one of us might get hit by a truck. Or win the lottery. There's no point in trying to safeguard against a thousand possible contradictory futures. All we can do is take sensible precautions, and treasure the present."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. Then, equally thoughtfully, "I'd rather win the lottery."

Cas got off the bed. "I'll see to that," he said, heading for the kitchen, "as soon as I have plenipotentiary abilities."

"I do know what that means, y'know!" Dean called after him.

He turned off the TV set, then looked more closely at the hand holding the remote. Then he went across the hall to the bathroom, pulled a nail brush and nail file out of a drawer, and started running water into the sink.

.

The 911 call came in three minutes after the screaming started. The Sheriff's deputies and paramedics arrived within five minutes, sirens wailing, rolling one after the other up the drive and onto the grounds surrounding the run-down two-story farmhouse just outside Lawrence. The deputies went in first, pulling people (in some cases literally) out of the old storage building that served as a chapel, separating them so that they couldn't talk to each other, checking for anyone who might be hidden with a weapon, securing the scene. Only then were the paramedics allowed in, but what the paramedics had to say had been clear for a while.

Detectives from the Sheriff's office came in next, talking to the witnesses, except for the one who was so hysterical they had taken her to a hospital. The house's residents were put into deputies' cars and driven away from the scene.

By the time the first of them made their way back to the compound, the body had been removed, and there were cars and news vans strung along the gravel road in both directions from the house.

.

The third time that the doorbell rang, Cas was sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring in a baffled way at the clock, which read 4:42. Dean was already on his feet, wearing only pajama pants and a disgruntled expression, headed for the door.

He peered through the security peephole, and, at the sight of the woman's face, looked as if he'd been startled into full wakefulness. When he opened the door he went from startled to shocked. Her long light gray skirt and hoodie, and white T-shirt, were all smeared with blood.

"Jess?" he gasped.

"Dean," she said brokenly. "I need help."


	2. Chapter 2

"My God – Jess – Are you – "

She followed his gaze, shook her head. "It's not my blood."

She made a little sound in her throat, and tears swelled from her already reddened eyelids.

Dean finally came to and stepped back, allowing Jess in. Cas, wearing a robe over his pajamas, stopped dead for a moment as he came into the room, then stepped forward to take Jess' arm and guide her to a chair that sat in a conversational grouping with a sofa and coffee table.

Dean moved around to face her. "Jess, what the hell?"

"Nick's dead." She almost whispered it.

"Nick – Is that – "

"The Messenger." As if even now she couldn't believe it. "God's Messenger is gone. Gone from us."

She put her face in her hands and her shoulders shook.

"Maybe you should lie down, Jess," Cas said quietly.

She shook her head. After a moment more of sobbing, she looked up and wiped tears off her face with the stubborn look so familiar to them. "I have to – tell somebody about this, what I know. Then I can – I've been up for twenty-four hours, and – Could you – I don't know – "

"Tea," Cas said firmly, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Right," Dean said, and sat on the sofa close to Jess. "Then you tell us whatever it is that you need to tell. Then you get some sleep. Then we figure out what to do."

Looking at Dean as though he'd revealed the secrets of the universe, Jess nodded.

Dean put his hand on top of hers. "So. You're safe here. Just tell us."

"The Messenger is dead," she said numbly.

"Is that his blood?"

She nodded.

Dean suddenly looked disconcerted. "How – um – how – "

"I found him. He was – "

Her eyes widened with horror and her breath sped up. She looked like she was experiencing it all over again. But before Dean could say anything, she continued, "He was stabbed. Several times. Throat and – " She vaguely indicated her stomach.

"Gut," Dean said, and cursed in a whisper. He looked over at Cas, who was standing by the wall of the dining room.

"Where did you find him?" Cas asked. "When?"

"Meeting hall. We have a building for meetings and worship. I noticed the door was ajar and I checked inside. He was lying right inside the door. There was so much blood, Dean, you can't imagine – " Color left her face as they watched.

"Jess? Jess. Lean over, put your head between your knees." Dean shot up, pressed on her back, and she went over readily. "OK. Try to breathe normally. We're gonna get some blood back up to your brain."

For a moment they froze in a weird tableau, Jess doubled over and trying to control her breathing, Dean behind her and rubbing her back gently, Cas standing watchfully. Cas and Dean stared at each other. Dean shook his head.

"OK." Jess sat up. "I'm OK. I won't do that again."

She pushed her limp, straggling hair back from her face with hands that also removed tears and, seemingly, emotion. "He turned his head a little and looked right at me, but he couldn't move or say anything. I screamed and called the others, started doing CPR. Sue-Ann tried to find his cell phone, but she couldn't find it, so she went to find Clark. It took her – so long to find him and get 911 called, it seemed like hours. It was probably only a few minutes. You know how time goes out of kilter at moments, at moments when – "

She bit her lip and nodded a few times.

"Didn't you have a phone?" Dean asked.

"Of course not." Her focus seemed to sharpen again. "No, you wouldn't know. We despise materialism, everyone grasping for things all the time, living object-centered lives." Her voice got stronger as her topic grew more familiar. "We only use electronic technology when nothing else will do, or when we can subvert it, use it against the materialists to bring the Misled out of emptiness into fulfillment." She nodded again. "There are only two cell phones at Heartland. Nick always has one, in case of emergency."

Her expression went blank for a moment.

Then she came back to the present. "Clark usually has the other one. I don't know why Nick didn't have his in his pockets. Sue-Ann just couldn't find it."

"So, you called 911," Dean said encouragingly.

"Clark did. I kept doing CPR. Sue-Ann and then Clark put pressure on his wounds. Betsy was hysterical, she was getting in our way, Casey had to pull her out of the hall. Dirk was crying and praying – Oh God, poor Dirk – "

The teakettle gave a quavering whistle, and she jumped. Cas went into the kitchen.

"Friggin' nightmare," Dean said.

Jess nodded. "And then the Sheriff's deputies got there, they wouldn't even let the paramedics in until they searched the meeting hall, they wouldn't let us talk to each other. Well, we're in a – cult – you know, so if we could talk to each other we'd probably be plotting something horrible – "

"Actually, that's pretty standard procedure, Jess. They want to make sure that people remember what they remember, you know, not what they heard someone say and now they think they saw it too."

"That's right. Your dad's a detective. How is he?"

"He's fine."

"And, how's Sam?"

Dean tipped his head a little to one side. "He's doin' OK, Jess."

There was a moment's silence. Then Cas came into the room bearing a tray with a steaming mug that had a string trailing out of it and a saucer of cookies. "Eat a couple of those," he told Jess, putting the tray on the coffee table. "Your blood sugar level has got to be lower than Death Valley."

She smiled a little and took a cookie. Dean stood. "I'm gonna go get something on."

Cas replaced him on the sofa, watching quietly as Jess finished a cookie and picked up the mug, blowing gently across the tea's surface, speeding the steam.

"So – obviously you've given a statement to the police."

She nodded. "The Sheriff's deputies. Some of us were there for hours. We couldn't see each other or lean on each other. I don't even know where everyone is now. Back at Heartland, I suppose. I think I was the last one they let go."

"Heartland is your compound?"

She gave him a slightly disgusted look. "Our home, yes."

"Did they keep you so long because you were the one who found the body?"

"I suppose. And someone told them, well, the point is, I've been there a long time."

"Someone told them what, Jess?" Cas asked, with that steel his quiet tone sometimes took on.

"Nothing, it's only – "

"Do they think you killed him?"

Dean, coming back into the room wearing a pair of jeans, froze, halfway into his white T-shirt.

"I don't know what they think."

"Did you kill him?"

Dean looked wide-eyed at Cas and back to Jess.

Jess looked genuinely wounded. "No! Cas, you know me – Why would you think I could kill any – and the Messenger? Of all people?"

Dean pulled his shirt the rest of the way on and sat beside Cas. "OK, Horatio, can I ask a question now?"

Cas, looking a little abashed, nodded.

"What do you think someone told them, Jess?" And at her hesitation, "You came to us for help. If we're going to help you, we have to know what's going on. If you don't want our help, enough to tell us the whole thing, then just have a cup of tea and crash for a few hours, and I'll drive you back to Heartland, no questions asked."

She drew and released a deep breath, took a drink of tea. "I was punished, about a week ago. I suppose that, along with my being the one to find him – I suppose I'd ask me a lot of questions too."

"What for? Punished why?"

"Thought and speech against God's will. I – The Messenger – " She brushed back her hair again, huffed a laugh. "God, it seemed important at the time. You know, we don't hate the outside world. We know they hate us, well, a lot of them, but we consider, we've always just called them the Misled. They listen to other people who tell them how to be happy, but those people are all screwed up too. So we all, people all go around thinking if they just have the right clothes or the right gadgets, the right job, the perfect boyfriend, we'll be happy. And all the time there's this emptiness inside. The emptiness gets worse and people do – all kinds of things to try to fill it, but they're not evil, they're misled. If they open themselves up to the Word of the Messenger, they can be happy, be what they were meant to be."

"So what did you say wrong?"

"Oh. Well, we had a Council meeting week before last. It's the Board of Directors of Lifeblood. We decide how to run Heartland, make decisions on implementing doctrine, things like that. Nick told us – " Her breath caught a little, but she forged on – "Nick told us that he'd had a revelation. That some of the Misled are so utterly, willfully lost, there's no saving them, and so from now on the outside world is divided into two groups, the Misled and the Damned. And I said – I thought about it all through the rest of the meeting, they were discussing how to determine the difference and how to reach out to the Misled while – shutting out the Damned, and I just – I couldn't. I couldn't. I finally got up my courage and asked, didn't that just make us like any other fundamentalist religion, telling people they're damned for all time just because they don't understand what we're saying? And Nick said it was the Word of God and I had to think about it longer, to understand why it was right – and I – "

She covered her mouth for a moment, then carried on. "I asked if there was a chance he might be misinterpreting the revelation."

Dean bit his lips ferociously, as though fighting back a grin. Cas simply looked impressed. "That took great courage."

"It took great arrogance. It took great selfishness."

"So – mm – " Dean was still fighting his mouth – "didn't go over just real well."

"Clark jumped up and said he was going to escort me outside. I looked at Nick – I don't know what I expected – and he just said, 'Go.'" She shook her head. "I sat outside the room and I knew they were discussing what to do about me. I was so afraid they were going to banish me, but I was still so full of anger and pride at the time. I was telling myself, fine, let them banish me, I'm still right."

"But they didn't, obviously," Dean said.

"No. They shunned me until I recanted. And I had to wear a chain around my neck. It's a symbol of the Misled."

"You mean, they didn't talk to you at all?"

"Only if it was absolutely necessary. They wouldn't look me in the eye or call me by my name." Jess smiled a little. "Betsy kept forgetting."

"How long did this go on?" Cas asked.

"Nine days."

Cas raised his eyebrows. "Nine days of being shunned by people you think of as your family is a hard punishment to bear."

"It was." A tear slid out of her eye.

"Family. Crap," Dean said unexpectedly. "Have you called your mom and dad, Jess?"

"No."

"What time did all this happen?"

"I found him about nine-fifteen last night."

"That means it made the ten o'clock news. I'm surprised we didn't – " Cas turned to him with the slightest of smiles and Dean said quickly, "Yeah. Anyway. I'm sure it made the news in the Kansas City area as well as here, Jess. You should call your folks, tell them you're OK."

"I thought about it. But I just can't handle it right now. I can't bear Dad telling me – they're all rotten, and no wonder, and Mom telling me to come home, like I overstayed a play date or something. Right now, I need more support than that. Can you understand that?"

Dean shook his head a little. "They're your family, Jess."

"My family are the people who love me for what I genuinely am."

"And shun you for nine days, and make you wear a chain – "

"You people, I'm not surprised – "

"Hey! Both of you!" Cas made a time-out symbol with his hands. "I do think Dean's right, Jess. They see that the head of your group got stabbed to death, they're gong to be frantic about you. We'll call them if you can't handle talking to them yourself, if that's OK. But that's not the point."

"I know." Jess sat back a little in her chair, and grief settled over her face again. "The point is, why am I here."

Dean nodded.

"They – We – Clark is sure that one of the Misled killed Nick. Actually, pretty much everyone is. Max was blaming himself for not putting in a security system and Rosco kept saying, 'The bastards finally got him.' Casey kept saying someone should get the threatening letters we've received to show the deputies, but no one wanted to leave Nick. Everyone knows that's what happened."

After a moment, Dean said, "Everyone but you."

Jess took a deep breath. "The, the killer left the knife at the scene. I don't know why – "

"Saw 'The Godfather' once too often," Dean mumbled.

" – but I recognized it."

Dean sat up and leaned forward. "You mean, it belongs to someone you know?"

"A place I know. About the time I joined Lifeblood, Nick had an idea for making money to help with expenses and the new place in New Mexico. It was – " She smiled sadly. "It was my baking, kind of, that gave him the idea. I used to bring cookies to the meetings and when I moved in, I'd bake bread and sometimes cakes and pies. People seemed to really like them and Nick said we should open a bakery. Well, you know it, Dean."

Dean's eyes were already closed as if he were in pain. "Don't tell me. Baked."

"Yes. Oh, now that it's owned by Lifeblood, it's a terrible place. But I've heard some of the things you say when you come in, Dean."

"You have?"

She looked a little uncomfortable. "Sometimes. I'll be back in the kitchen wrapping up for the day, and I hear your voice."

"And you never came out to say hi?"

"Well – The whole thing with me and Sam – I wasn't sure you'd want to see me. And I knew that if you realized it was owned by Lifeblood, you'd stop coming in."

"The knife," Cas said.

Jess had obviously been relieved at the topic diversion; her face tensed again. "There was a knife we'd brought from the house. It had a chip, a pretty large chip, on the blade. I tried to keep using it, we conserve money as much as possible, but it was just no good. I thought, we might need to use it as a tool sometime, tossed it in the back of a drawer and bought a new one."

"And that was the knife," Dean said.

She nodded.

"Well, Jess, who was working at the bakery yesterday?"

"It's not that easy. Yesterday was our Festival of True Joy. Everyone was there at one time or another, and it was just three blocks from the bakery. I was in the kitchen first thing in the morning, a couple of us worked the counter – "

"That Casey," Dean said, again as if in pain.

"Yes. Betsy does the afternoon baking. Some of us came by just to talk, some came by to pick up stuff for the festival. It got hot in the afternoon, and I think Betsy may have left the door to the kitchen open when the oven was going; she did that a couple of times this summer. If the baker was up at the counter putting trays in the cases or just talking to someone, and the back door was unlocked or open, it would have been pretty easy for one of us to just slip into the kitchen, open a drawer, and slip back out again. What I can't see – "

She drew a long shuddering breath. "What I can't see is an outsider knowing that Baked is owned by us, getting into and out of the kitchen without being noticed by one of us, deciding to kill one of us with our own knife but picking one at the back of a drawer behind a utensil holder, and then waiting until nine o'clock at night in a different location to use it. It's just – too improbable."

"So you think one of you did it."

She stared unseeingly at the table for a moment. "I would rather believe anything else. But I can't."

"What did the others say?" Cas asked. "Oh, you haven't spoken to anyone."

"No. But even so, I doubt if anyone else would have recognized it. It's been in that drawer for months. Betsy's the only other one I'm sure ever used it, and she wasn't – she wasn't seeing anything else besides Nick, and, and all the blood. I was really worried for her. I asked a deputy about her, and he said they'd taken her to a hospital to get her calmed down. Of course, everyone else was kind of the same. I'm sure some of them saw it. But I doubt if they recognized it."

"So, you and the killer may be the only ones who know where the weapon came from," Dean said.

She nodded.

Dean leaned back a little. "Well, Jess, if you came here to ask our advice, you know what I'm going to tell you. You've got to tell the deputies."

She gave him a level look. "Dean, if your dad had been killed and there was evidence at the scene that implicated Sam, would you tell the police about it?"

His gaze shifted.

"And it would be so much worse for us. The police don't hate Sam, the outside – "

"Jess, the police don't – "

" – world doesn't hate Sam. If I was questioned for hours just because I was punished, what would they do if they knew for sure that one of us killed him? There'd be newspaper stories and TV stories about a cult of murderers. We had a hard enough time persuading the county in New Mexico that we weren't going to be doing satanic rituals or something, now they might withdraw their building permits."

"I don't think they'd be that hysterical, Jess," Cas said.

"They would! You don't know! A pair of us walk into a store wearing our Lifeblood pendants and you can hear people whispering in the next aisle, 'that cult.' Casey wasn't kidding about the threatening letters, we've had a lot of them. Nick always makes sure we see them so we understand the – "

A flinch crossed her face, and she closed her eyes briefly. "So we understand the threat."

They gave her a moment. Then Cas said gently, "Nonetheless, if you came for advice, I think you have it."

"I don't want advice. I know what needs to be done. I just, I need your help to do it."

"What do you need?"

She looked at Dean. "I want you to join Lifeblood."

For a moment he looked completely blank.

Then a smile of tempted mischief went across his face. "You mean, like – undercover?"

"Well – I suppose that's what you'd call it, yes. You'd be more objective about us than I am, you might see some suspicious behavior that I'm missing. You could poke around more, saying you're not familiar with the place. If you got in trouble, I could cover you with some kind of story, and vice versa."

She leaned forward a little. "I was thinking about this on my way here. What I really want is to get into Nick's office. It's locked, and I think Nick had the only key. Maybe Clark has it now. I'm trying to remember, when Sue-Ann was trying to find Nick's phone – " She took a breath, shifted her gaze, looked back at them – "if his keys were there. I can't remember. But I think I know someplace he might hide something. You're really persuasive, Dean, maybe you could get us in there. I just – whether it's something physical or something someone says, I just want to find something that would let the deputies home in on just one person, the one who actually – did it, instead of on the entire movement."

Cas shook his head. "Jess, I know you're exhausted, but – and bereaved. But this is a plan out of Fantasyland. If you don't tell the deputies where that knife came from, we will."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "I'll deny I said it. I'll tell them you're lying."

"Why would we?"

"Because you hate Lifeblood. Because, because I broke up with Dean's brother and you're getting back at me."

"OK, that's enough, Jess." Dean's tone was crisp. "Like Cas said, you're exhausted, and we've had this thing dumped on us in the last half-hour. Let's take a break for a few hours. You get some sleep. I'll think about the undercover thing. We'll get some food into you, and by the time you're ready to go back we'll have – How did you get here, anyway?"

"Walked." Jess yawned, suddenly and hugely.

"From the Sheriff's office? They didn't offer you a ride, or anything?"

"I told them I didn't want one, I had friends real near by. I didn't want them to see where I was going."

"You walked all that way in the dark? You've come a long way in a year and a half."

She smiled. Her back sagged, and she yawned again.

"OK," Cas said. "Give me five minutes to change the bed – "

"No, really. I like this room. Do you mind if I crash on the couch?"

"It's good for sleeping," Dean said, standing. "I take a lot of Sunday-afternoon naps here."

Cas rose, too. "Jess? How about your parents?"

She pressed her hands to her face briefly, as if the question was overwhelming. "Dean? Would you call them?"

"Yes."

"That, that would be." A file folder of student papers to be graded – part of Cas' work as a teaching assistant – and a red pencil were lying on the coffee table. Jess picked up the pencil, then looked at the file folder cover blankly for a moment. "Huh. Oh." She wrote her parents' number on the paper, let the pencil slide to the floor as if she'd forgotten it existed, rolled and curled up on the sofa.

"I don't want 'em to worry," she said. "But they get the wrong idea. I mean, I don't want them to get the – " She yawned. "Tell 'em I'm OK, but I won't abandon Lifeblood. Specially not now."

Her eyes drifted shut. "Sheriff's office I kept dozing off. Then I kept seeing Nick. I kept seeing, and I'd jerk awake. Hope I can go to sleep. Not just talk you guys. Talk you to, make you bored. Hope I can."

The muscles around her eyes squinched for a moment, then relaxed. She swallowed, sighed, and went still.

Dean took a throw off the back of the sofa and put it over her, while Cas took the half-empty teacup out to the kitchen (but left the cookies).

Then, with one accord, they headed for the bedroom, where Cas turned to face Dean. "They'll have caught the killer in a couple of days."

"So then there won't be any harm my being there for a couple of days."

"The deputies will have searched Nick's office long before you get a crack at it, and they'll take away anything useful."

"Anything they think is useful. Once I get to know the Lifeblood people, something they thought was worthless might turn out to be valuable."

"Great. And you think that a murderer who's already nervous about getting caught isn't going to notice you searching things? He wasn't worried about killing his religious leader, you think he'll be worried about killing you?"

Dean gestured dismissively. "That only happens in books."

"The scars on your brother's ribcage beg to differ."

"Different thing. He went charging off by himself. I'm working my way in naturally, and I'd have an ally there."

"If Jess wants an ally, why didn't she go to Sam?"

"Well, for one thing, Schuyler's a hell of a lot further from the Sheriff's office than our place. But come on, Cas, you know why she didn't. Go to the guy who still loves her, to help the cult she left him for?"

"Yeah, that would have been insensitive."

"And hey, if you're so concerned about me, what about Jess? She's going back there, you know there's no way to stop her. She feels like she'd be abandoning her family. So she'll go back there and she'll make the killer nervous."

"That's not your responsibility."

Dean gave him a look.

"All right. No, I don't like it, either. But I really don't like the idea of your deliberately stirring up a killer."

"I'm not going to go and announce, 'I hear you had a murder, I'm gonna investigate!' I'm just going to get to know the people, look around a little. I have the feeling there's a lot of internal conflict there, and they won't have told the deputies a tenth of it."

"Someone told them about Jess being punished."

"Yeah. Someone used a knife that Jess used, too."

Cas blinked. "You think someone's trying to frame Jess?"

"I think, at least, someone's trying to throw attention away from themselves. Another reason to be there – stick close by her, maybe give her an alibi if anything else happens."

"If anything else happens." Cas raised and dropped his arms in exasperation, turning away from Dean.

Dean caught his arm and turned him back around. "It won't. But look. How about this? I'll make a deal with Jess. If she can get me in, I'll move in with Lifeblood for a week. If we don't find anything by the end of the week, and the deputies haven't found the killer by then, I'll move out and she'll tell them about the knife. Fair?"

"It'll be a damn long week."

"Nah, it'll be great. You can watch all those English shows you like."

Cas smiled briefly.

"I'm going to wait until nine or nine-thirty to call the Moores," Dean said. "If they're in town kicking down the doors of the Sheriff's office we won't reach 'em anyway, and if they're at home I don't want to call them at four a.m. and start out, 'Hi, first of all, Jess isn't dead.'"

"Sounds good. I'll probably be in church then, but I'll have my phone with me if you need anything."

"Oh yeah. Church."

Cas grinned. "Go ahead and sleep in. Someone should be here if Jess wakes up."

"Thanks, man. Next week."

.

About five hours later, Dean crept into the front room. Jess was still sound asleep. He picked up the folder with the Moores' number and went back to the bedroom.

The phone was answered on the first ring by a woman's tremulous voice. "Hello?"

"Hi, Carla, this is Dean Winchester, Sam's brother. We met a couple of times, you might remember."

"Of course I remember you, Dean. Is Jessica – Is there something – "

"She's just fine. She's here with me and Cas, sleeping. Did you hear about what happened at Lifeblood?"

A caught intake of breath that Dean could hear even over the phone. "No, what?"

"The leader of Lifeblood was murdered last night. Jess is fine. Upset, of course. She spent a few hours at the Sheriff's office, then she came here because – well, you know, we're friends, and I think she just wasn't ready to go back to, you know, the cult place yet. She found the body, so you can understand."

"Can I talk to her?" Carla's tone was pleading.

"Well, um, like I said, she's sleeping right now. She really needs it. I'll see if I can't get her to call later on. OK?"

A sigh that was almost a sob.

After a moment, Dean said, "I think, communication-wise, I think it might help if you didn't tell her to come home. You know, she doesn't want to abandon her friends right now."

"I won't. I won't. Please, if you can get her to call, please do."

"I'll do my damndest, Carla."

"Thank you."

"Well. I'm gonna – "

"Have you told this to Al?"

"Um, no. Isn't he – Is he in Lawrence?"

A pause. Then, "We had a – disagreement. He's not in the house at the moment. I thought you might have called his cell phone."

"This is just bein' a great day for you so far, isn't it?"

She laughed brokenly.

"Anything I can do?" Dean asked, though he knew the answer.

"Please get Jessica to call me. I won't tell her what to do. I just want to hear her voice."

"Understood. Hang in there, Carla. Things are gonna get better."

"Thank you, Dean. Thank you for telling me about Jessica."

"No problem. 'Bye."

"Goodbye."

Dean took the file folder back into the living room and, just as he started to put it on the coffee table, Jess gave a horrified gasp, flipped over on the couch and half-sat up.

"You OK?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Sorry." She looked around blankly. "What time is it?"

"Almost 10:00. Go on back to sleep. Or, you know, I was going to make bacon. And waffles with lots of butter and strawberry jam. Want something – "

She gave a little whimper that sounded like she hadn't eaten in days, and Dean grinned. "OK, then. It'll just take – "

The first two lines of "Carry On Wayward Son" came from the cell phone in his pocket, and he looked a little disconcerted.

"I'm gonna take this in the other room. Be back soon."

He closed the bedroom door behind him and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hey, Sam."

"Dean, what was the name of that lawyer Dad got you that time?"

"Ava Wilson. She's fierce. Why?"

"Well, a detective from the Sheriff's office was just here – "

"On Sunday morning? – Wait, what?"

"A detective came to Schuyler to ask me some questions. That guy Munroe, the leader of Lifeblood, he was murdered last night, did you know?"

"Yeah. Yes. Um – Why were they there to see you?"

"I got into a kind of confrontation with some Lifeblood people yesterday, and Munroe was one of them. You know, and what with – Jess, and everything, the detectives wanted to – "

"You got into a confrontation?" Dean almost shouted.

Sam's voice was dry. "You know, Dean, if I'd known he was going to be killed, I wouldn't have."

"Well. Yeah. I know. But why were you even around them?"

"Well, that's – kind of a long story. The point is, apparently someone at Lifeblood remembered my last name, and someone made it sound like I'm crazy jealous and attacked Munroe."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Oh. They did."

"Which I didn't. The problem is, I was studying alone in my room until Ash got back in at eleven. No one saw me leave, but no one saw me not leave, either. So I thought, if the detectives come back for round two and they're more serious, I'm going to want a lawyer with me."

"Yeah. For sure. Wilson and Davis, that's the name of the firm. Did it seem – Did they seem real serious about you as a suspect?"

"Hard to tell. All they said they wanted was to get the incident straight, but you never really know what they're thinking."

"No. OK. I have a lot of stuff to tell you, but right now isn't the best time. Plus, I've got to make some breakfast, like, yesterday. Let's talk this afternoon, you tell me your story and I'll tell you mine."

"Sure. Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. Call Dad about the detectives. Tell him that the Lifeblood people gave them your name."

"Will do."

Dean disconnected and went into the hall just as Jess slipped into the bathroom. The front door opened, and Cas came in. Dean had his jaw set, and Cas looked surprised at his grim expression.

"Oh," Dean said. "It's. So. On."

.

"Hey," Casey said gently. "You know, you're allowed to eat it after you stare at it for five minutes."

Dean looked up absently from the tabletop. "I'm just admiring the magnificence." He let his quick smile drop off of his face, and he picked up a fork, poking at a piece of blueberry pie as if trying to work up an appetite.

Casey slipped away for a moment. Then she came out from behind the counter and tapped a snowy scoop of vanilla ice cream onto his pie.

He looked up. "You are a very understanding woman."

She smiled a little and sat down. "Crappy day?"

He looked as if he were thinking it over. "More like – crappy life? You look like maybe your day isn't going that great, either."

It was true. Casey's eyes looked tired and her usual flirtatious vivacity was missing.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she said with a half-smile.

"Let's see. Well, life choices, I guess. Y'know, I thought I was doing so well, but it just keeps getting harder and harder." He shrugged a little. "I guess I always knew it was wrong."

She tipped her head a little. "Romantic problem?"

"How – Why say that?"

"Usually it's two slices to go. Today it's one slice that you're eating here."

"Well. Yeah. A life story in pie." He gave her a flickering smile. "The thing is, it's so good sometimes. And being alone is so damn hard."

"Are you married?"

Dean snorted. "Not in Kansas." He drew a deep breath, met her eyes and blurted out fast, "It's, I'm with another guy."

"Oh. I see."

"And he's a great guy. He really is. Which is part of why I feel lousy. It's not like he's cheating on me, or anything. And being, two guys being together isn't that big of a thing these days. Everything should be fine. So I keep shining it on and makin' jokes, but I keep thinking – I can't get away from the feeling that – "

She waited a moment, then said, "It's unnatural."

He met her gaze again. "Yeah. I know, that sounds stupid."

"Not at all. It sounds like you have a very fine moral compass."

He looked dubious. "You think?"

"I was in a relationship once. It was with a guy, but – well, without details – I knew there was, there were some things wrong. And for awhile I was fine with that, it seemed forbidden and exciting. And in a lot of ways, he really needed me. But – if you know that something's bad – bad for you, against God's will – you know it. You can dodge around it or try to shout over it, but you know that. The knowledge won't go away."

Dean shook his head. "It doesn't."

"Eventually, if you're not going to lose yourself in alcohol or drugs or something, eventually you have to do what you know is right."

Dean looked as if he were thinking it over. "You make it sound easy. Just – break the guy's heart and then live alone forever."

"Well, no, I admit it's not easy. I got lucky. I found a spiritual movement with people who share my values. They helped make it easier."

"I suppose, but you only go to church once a week."

She laughed. "Not a church. I said a spiritual movement, much more active and powerful than any church. Have you ever heard of Lifeblood?"

"Yeah, sure. But didn't the leader get killed last night?"

Her head dropped and her hands clenched.

"Oh, God, sorry," Dean said. "I'm sorry. Bull in a china shop. I just thought it would be like if the minister of your church got killed, you know. Sad, but not personal."

"It's personal," she whispered. "It's very personal."

After a moment, she raised her head. "But that's the great thing about Lifeblood. We'll help each other through this. And I have faith. I don't know why the Messenger of God was taken from us, but I know we'll find some way to keep communicating the message. No – no psychopath with a knife is going to destroy the movement."

"Do they know who did it?"

She shook her head. "It was one of the Misled, one of the people who hate us. The Messenger said – God, that was just – Friday – just about twenty-four hours before – He said that we had to be aware of threats. He said a martyr might be made."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Like he knew."

"Like he knew. And he was killed between the first and second days of the Festival of True Joy. Like he was telling us, don't be sad, I'm going on to true joy."

"He sounds great."

"He was great. The movement is great because of him. We'll keep bringing people out of emptiness into fulfillment, no matter what some people do to us."

"Out of emptiness into fulfillment. That's a great – That sounds great."

She refocused on him. "Rings a bell?"

"Yeah. It just seems like, there's emptiness the way I am now, and there's emptiness if I leave. No way out of it."

"But there is a way. Believe me. I felt the same way. But you can move on from an unnatural relationship to real companionship with people who love you and value you for what you really are."

She went back behind the counter, wrote something on a piece of paper, and came back to sit across from him and give it to him. "We're going to have a service for the Messenger tonight. It won't be very formal, that'll be later on, but we're just going to gather and share memories and support each other. I'd like you to come."

"I don't want to barge in."

"You won't be. This is what we do. We help people, no matter what." She sighed. "Actually, you'd kind of be doing us a favor if you came. I think it would do us good to know that the message reaches people, even though – "

She looked sharply away.

After a moment, Dean said, "I'll come. I'd kinda like to hear what your group has to say."

She looked back at him with a glowing smile. "You'll be glad you did."

.

The address Casey had given him was the old farmhouse, but when he got there – parking on the edge of the gravel road the equivalent of two blocks away – he could see that people were moving toward a building about 70 yards behind the house, at the bottom of a fairly steep slope.

There was crime scene tape over the door of the meeting house, but fortunately the weather was warm, and dozens of chairs had been set up in rows just outside the building. The stage that had been used at the festival, along with a podium and microphone, was providing a place for the speakers. A brilliant light from the top of a tall lamppost cast a wide circle around the attendees, and outside lights were on at the house, but it was a little tricky walking down the dark slope in between.

Casey met him and guided him to a chair in the middle of the rows. She was, a little surprisingly, wearing a long red dress, but she had a large black scarf tied over her shoulders. There were more attendees than chairs – certainly every Lifeblood member who lived nearby, whether in the Heartland house or not, was there, along with press and the simply curious. Dean indicated that he'd be willing to stand, but Casey had reserved a seat for him between two guys named Max and Dirk. Saying that she had to sit in the front row, she departed, and Dean saw her sit in a chair and put her arm around a woman whose shoulders he could barely see, she was bent over and sobbing so hard. On the other side of the sobbing woman, he saw the back of Jess' blonde head.

Max tried to make a little conversation with Dean, asking him how he knew Casey and why he'd come, but Dirk, after shaking Dean's hand and doing his best to smile, sank into a numb silence.

The service was touching. As Casey had said, it was informal. Clark, wearing a light gray suit with a black armband but no tie, gave an opening statement with one of his own memories of Munroe, then asked who else wanted to share something. He introduced each speaker by name if he knew them, and he knew most of them, including the one who stood and began, "So I haven't been here in about six months . . . "

Casey spoke, somber but tearless. Jess spoke briefly, with tears. The woman between them didn't speak. Max didn't go up to the platform, just stood where he was and awkwardly told a brief affectionate story about the Messenger that actually caused a ripple of laughter through the crowd. Dirk sat with his elbows on his knees, silent and looking at the ground, wiping his eyes now and then.

Clark closed the meeting with Munroe's traditional, "Thank you, Lord! Bless us, Lord!" and the congregation repeating after him. But he paused significantly before he said, "Protect us from our enemies," and Dean could hear some people sobbing as others repeated the words.

There was a crush to get up to the platform and mingle afterward. Dean hesitated, and then Casey appeared, leading him through the crowd and directly to Clark. The mass of people trying to talk to Clark and Jess stepped back as Casey walked up to them; apparently, in this place, the bakery-counter chick was someone very important.

"Clark, this is Dean. He's seeking a path to fulfillment. Dean, Clark is a Scholar of Lifeblood."

"A scholar?" Dean smiled, talking over the crowd. "I hope you don't have to be one of those to join."

Clark smiled back. "It's a title, and it just means that I've attained a certain level of knowledge about Lifeblood doctrine and teachings, as well as giving assistance to our cause. Sue-Ann is a Scholar, too."

He pointed to the woman at the end of what had, apparently almost accidentally, turned into a reception line. She was perhaps 60, although the lines of tension around her eyes and mouth may have made her look older than she actually was. Anger sparked from her eyes as she talked intensely with a young woman who was nodding and agreeing, although with a gentler air.

Then Dean's gaze ran over the three women between Clark and Sue-Ann. Casey and Jess stood on either side of a pale woman who was obviously working hard to keep herself together. And the three were all wearing the same long dress. Different sizes, obviously, and different colors: Casey's was red, Jess' was yellow, and the third woman's was white. They all had black scarves tied over their shoulders. The scarves were all slightly different, as if they'd just been bought on the spur of the moment. But the dresses looked like they'd been specially made to set these women off at previous ceremonial occasions.

Dean's flashing notice of this was disrupted when Clark shook his hand, then put his other hand behind Dean's elbow and drew him closer. His cheek almost brushed Dean's as he said in Dean's ear, "I understand that you're coming to a turning point. We all want to be there for you any way we can."

Dean stuttered, "Uh – thanks," as Clark released him, backing up a step and beaming at him.

"Dean?" Jess' tone was pleasantly surprised. "Of all people! I'm so happy to see you!"

"You know him?" Clark asked.

"He lived across the street from me first semester last year, before I moved here. One or the other of us was always running over to get him to fix something for us."

"Are you a handyman?"

"Kinda," Dean replied. "I work in auto repair right now, but I worked in construction for a while, and some other things. That's the upside of a family trust, you don't have to devote your whole life to any one thing. You can do a bunch of different stuff if you want to."

"Oh, we could use someone like you around here," Clark said.

"Dean, this is Casey," Jess said.

Casey rolled her eyes a bit. "I'm the one who brought him here. You've known him all this time and you never went out to talk to him?"

"Went out where?"

"The bakery. Six-fifteen a couple times a week, two slices to go?"

"That's you?" Jess looked a little embarrassed. "Yeah. I should get out of the kitchen more."

"But I like the results when you're in the kitchen," Dean said plaintively.

Jess smiled at him. "This is Betsy," she said, introducing the wearer of the white dress.

The pale woman with some gray in her light brown hair said something to him so quietly that he had to lean forward. "I'm sorry?"

She cleared her throat. "I said, did you know Nick?"

"No ma'am, uh, Betsy. I'm in kind of a bad place in my life right now – I mean, nothing like what you're, you're all going though – but Casey invited me, wanted me to, you know, get an understanding of Lifeblood."

Betsy was smiling already. "Just exactly what Nick would have wanted her to do. He always helped people in need, for their good and for the good of Lifeblood. It was more important than anything to him."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Dean said.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He backed away from the crush and just looked around for a moment. Then an arm slid under his. With a little nod, Casey indicated that they should go on back up to the street.

"So what did you think?" she asked as they moved away.

"Honestly?"

"Of course, honestly."

"I think these are real good people. And with, you know, the way I've been, I'm not sure they'd want me around if they knew."

She looked at him reprovingly. "What do you think we are, Dean? Saints? We're all sinners here, we're all wandering souls. The only difference between the Misled and those of us here is that Lifeblood members have been smart enough or honest enough, or even just desperate enough, to realize that the outside world doesn't hold any hope for virtue or peace. They'll just lead you from one empty place to another. 'Oh, you're lonely because you left an unnatural relationship? Well, take some drugs, that'll make you feel better! Or spend a lot of money, that'll get you a beautiful woman!' In Lifeblood, you'll get real help. But it won't be because we're all perfect. It's because we're sinners, we've been there."

They were about halfway up the slope when Casey stopped suddenly. "Dean. Would you pray with me?"

His hesitation was momentary. "Sure."

He knelt, and then looked up, a little startled, when she didn't. She touched his temples with her fingertips, then cupped his face in her hands. She tipped her head back, her pale face and black hair and red dress lit by the light from the meeting house lamppost below and the moon from above.

"Lord, please guide your Misled child Dean Novak to the right place for him. Let him find the strength to leave a sinful life and find a life of meaning. Let him know that peace and safety and kindness await him with us. Messenger – " she choked, then continued – "Messenger, whisper in his mind, give him the guidance he needs. Thank you, Lord. Bless us – "

"Thank you, Lord." Dean was a step slow on the uptake.

"Bless us, Lord."

"Bless us, Lord."

"Protect us from our enemies."

"Protect us from our enemies."

As he stood, Casey's name was called. Down by the meeting hall, Sue-Ann was beckoning.

"Thank you for coming tonight, Dean," Casey said. "If you have any questions, you know where to find me."

"Thanks for inviting me," he said, and watched her walk away.

Then he turned, headed for his Impala, and mumbled, "If I never hear the word 'unnatural' again, it'll be too soon."

.

At 7:00 the next morning, Dean found Bobby in the small office of Singer's Auto Repair, filling out computerized order forms, banging away on a grimy putty-colored keyboard.

"Bobby! Hey, man! Listen, I – Well, hey, first, how was your weekend?"

At Dean's rather manically chipper tone, Bobby spun slowly on his chair, his eyes squinted in suspicion. "It was fine. Karen and me went to the movies. What's goin' on with you?"

"Well. I wanted to ask you a favor. And it's kind of complicated, so I'm not gonna explain the whole thing now. I will later, I promise. When we see how the whole thing turns out, I'll tell you everything. But for now, I'm just wondering, if anyone, well, anyone who's a stranger, comes around asking about me, could you tell them my name's Dean Novak?"

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "You and Cas gettin' married?"

"No. Well, not now."

"Good. 'Cause it'd be a damn shame to give up a name like Winchester. If you're gonna just go with one name, that one should be it."

"Uh, yeah, OK. We'll talk about that when the time comes. But meanwhile – "

"Yeah, tell any strangers who come around that your name's Novak. Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so. Maybe that you think I worked in construction once, but you don't know exactly when."

"Construction."

"But you don't know exactly when. And of course, since I'm Dean Novak, I don't have a brother named Sam Winchester."

"Right. How long am I supposed to carry this story in my aging brain?"

"Not long. I'm hoping maybe a week before I move out of the apartment, then exactly one week after that."

"First you're takin' Cas' name, then you're movin' out?"

"Only for a week. After that, I'll tell you the whole story, start to finish. OK?"

"You're Dean Novak, you don't have a brother, I think you worked in construction once but I don't know when."

"Right. Thanks a lot, Bobby." Dean went out the door that led to the garage.

And came right back in. "Unless it's the Sheriff's deputies, of course."

"Deputies are gonna come asking about you?"

"I hope not. But if they do, of course tell them the truth about everything."

"Including that you have a brother named Sam?"

"Of course! He'll be the reason they'd even be here!"

"Sam would – No, you know, I don't wanna know. It'll be a long-ass story, and I got a lot of work to do. So do you, for that matter. But sometime, I'm gettin' the full story and a steak dinner outta this."

"You're a prince, Bobby." Dean went back out to the garage.

Bobby stared narrowly at the door, but it stayed closed.

He rubbed his hand along his beard, shook his head, and turned back to the computer.


	3. Chapter 3

Except for the fact that she was sitting on Dean's and Cas' couch drinking a cup of tea, Jess looked completely different on Thursday night than she had early Sunday morning. The most obvious difference, of course, was that her clothes weren't covered with blood. Her hair was washed and pulled back, her face was clean and composed. She even gave a bit of a smile when the doorbell rang and Dean, who'd been pacing, started visibly.

"OK," he said pointlessly, "I'm gonna get that."

He opened the door and let Sam in, glancing down at the folder in his hand. "Hi. Hey, you brought stuff."

"Some pretty interesting stuff, I think," Sam said, looking determinedly at Dean. Then, just as determinedly, he shifted focus. "Hi, Jess."

"Hi, Sam. It's good to see you."

"Want some tea?" Dean asked.

"Have you got a beer?"

"Have I got a beer?" Dean asked in disbelief.

Sam gestured as if to admit it had been a stupid question. "Gimme a beer."

Dean went into the kitchen. Sam sat down in the chair. "It's good to see you again, too."

"How are classes?" Jess asked.

"Really interesting this semester. I took Calc II last semester and decided, OK, that's as interesting as math's gonna get."

Jess chuckled, and there was a moment of silence.

Dean came back into the room with two beers and put one in front of Sam. "Where's Cas?" Sam asked.

"At a German-language movie with his – tutor."

Dean practically spat out the last word, and Sam and Jess instantly, automatically, exchanged a look.

"OK," Dean said, sitting on the sofa beside Jess with his own beer. "My report first. Bobby agreed that if any strangers ask about me, my last name's Novak and I worked construction sometime in the past. I decided – "

"I was – 'scuse me, Dean," Jess said. "I was glad that you took my suggestion and mentioned the construction thing at the service last Sunday. We're going to be doing a lot of our own building in New Mexico, and we really need people who know about it. If any one thing will get you in, that will."

"Great. Just hope I don't have to build anything."

"Well, Dean," Sam said, "we helped Dad with that deck that summer."

"Yeah. That was a sparkling piece of work."

Sam laughed as Jess said, "But at the service you also said something about a family trust? Why that?"

"Well, you know. It just never hurts if people think you have money."

Jess gave him a level look. "You mean if a cult thinks you have money. And you know that's exactly the opposite of what we're about."

"Yeah, OK. I just figured it wouldn't hurt."

Jess pinched her lips together and Dean hurried on. "I thought it would be too big of a hassle to change the name of my Facebook page and change it back again, so I just took off all the pictures. So they might know a Dean Winchester exists, but they don't know he looks like Dean Novak."

"And I removed all references to you on my Facebook page, which was a hassle," Sam said. "We are entirely too involved in each other's lives." 

"I can't help it if my little brother idolizes me."

"Whatever. Point is, they've known about me longer than you, so someone might have been researching me and memorized your face, or whatever. Poor bastard."

"I don't think so," Jess said. "Not from the feedback I've been getting. But that's part of my report. Anything else, Dean?"

"Just that I took the Winchester name off our mailbox, so all it says now is Novak. If either of you can think of anything else, let me know. I'm really doing my best to be Dean Novak for a couple weeks, Jess, so if they find out that I'm Sam's brother in some way that I can't control and kick me out before a week is up, the deal still holds, right? You'll tell the deputies about the knife then?"

She nodded.

"OK. You go."

"You made a really good first impression at the service, Dean. Casey and Betsy and Max all asked if you might be interested in joining."

"Betsy did? I wouldn't have thought she was noticing anything."

"She did. And your coming to our regular Wednesday night worship last night, that was really well received. The problem is that we're, we're so disorganized right now. I don't know when we'll even be talking about new members." She shook her head. "After the Messenger left us, a Probationer moved out. That's a good thing in one way, Dean, it means we have room for you. But if other people follow him – the Council is just trying to figure out where we go from here, what we do. I mean, there's not another Messenger. Casey thinks we should elect a leader who will run Lifeblood on the principles Nick established, and Clark thinks we should wait for a revelation." She looked upward, with a sigh, and back down again. "Thank the Lord that most of the day-to-day operations are self-sufficient. We're keeping the bakery running – "

"Yeah, I thought it was awesome that you were open last Sunday," Dean said.

Jess gave him a smile. "We opened late, obviously, and of course the second day of the Festival was cancelled. But people are still doing their chores, taking classes, gathering donations. Max did a beautiful – " she caught her breath – "a beautiful layout on the website about the Messenger. Did you see it?" she asked Dean almost eagerly.

"Well – "

"I did," Sam said. "It was really well written. Some anger, of course, but not a lot of 'Damn evil outsiders.' A lot more, 'This was a guy who inspired us and we're going to miss him.'"

Jess smiled. "I wrote that."

"It sounded like you."

"Max did the layout and chose the pictures. It was – OK. Sorry. It makes me feel better to talk about a beautiful tribute than about finding a murderer."

"You were saying," from Dean, "that it might be hard to raise the topic of getting me in."

"Yes. But if I can raise the topic of possible new members at the Council meeting tomorrow, I'm sure Casey would vote for you and I'm pretty sure Betsy would, and of course I would. The only problem is that Clark might be kind of resistant if he thinks it's Casey's idea, and vice versa. But even so, I think I can get you in within the next few days."

"Who's on the Council?" Dean asked.

"Clark and Sue-Ann, Betsy, Casey, and me. Nick was, of course."

"Majority vote?" Sam asked.

"Well – " She gestured as if at a loss. "On mundane things that didn't need Nick's input, yes. On more important issues, we'd present the different ideas to Nick and he'd decide. At the moment, yes, just majority vote."

"So it sounds like you've got the votes you need lined up, if you can get the issue brought to a vote."

"Exactly."

"Two questions," Dean said. "First off, is Clark gay?"

Jess made a funny little face. "I don't think so. Why?"

"It just seemed like he gets a little, you know, physical, up-close, with me. And he doesn't strike me as the type who does that normally."

"He's not. I don't know, Dean. He wouldn't go around saying it if he were, since of course it's against Lifeblood principles. He'd just abstain. When I first got there, he was courting Eve. But I think that broke up a couple of months ago."

"See, that sounds like the kind of thing I'd do when I was in the closet – date a girl long enough to make it look good, then find a reason to break it off before she got too serious."

"Could be. Does it matter?"

"Uh, yeah, Jess, it could matter a lot. If Clark was in unrequited love with Nick and couldn't handle the rejection anymore. Or if he made a pass at Nick and Nick threatened to kick him out of Lifeblood and tell everyone about it, and Clark couldn't handle that either."

"My God," Jess whispered. "I suppose – But you should have seen him working to save Nick. He got as much blood on him as I did, trying to pressure the wounds, shouting for Rosco to go up to the road and make sure the ambulance didn't overshoot the house. It would be – "

"That's the major problem with the killer being in Lifeblood," Sam said. "'Scuse me, Jess, I'm just gonna talk about this clinically, sorry if I upset you. But you told Dean – and I got Dad to confirm it with the Sheriff's Department – that he was stabbed in the throat and gut. Well, wounds like that, sticking the knife in and pulling it back out, are going to spray blood everywhere."

"There was," Jess said quietly.

"Also, it requires a lot of determination and energy to kill someone like that. Whoever did it would be covered in blood and breathing like they just ran a marathon. Dean told me that Nick was dying just as you found him, and he couldn't have lived long with wounds like that. The moment you found him, you started screaming and brought everyone in Lifeblood running within, maybe, three to five minutes of the attack. Hell of a feat to stab someone like that, tear up to the house without anyone seeing you, shower, change clothes, and get back down there looking like your regular routine was just disrupted."

"That's something we'll have to investigate while I'm there, Jess," Dean said, "how long it takes to get from one building to another."

"And where everyone was. I can start that now, just asking people about their experience that night. If I talk about mine, I can probably get them to talk about theirs."

"The deputies' reports would speed things up so much," Sam said regretfully.

"No go with Dad, huh?"

"I think he didn't buy the line that I'd like to know what the reports in a murder case look like, in case I go into criminal law."

"You didn't tell him about the undercover thing?"

"'Course not."

"He's in Wichita now, anyway, and when he was in Lawrence he was in the police department instead of the Sheriff's office, so why would they give him anything?" Jess asked.

"Well, I think that was another problem."

"Now, where were we?" Dean said.

"Gotta figure out how someone committed a gory murder without looking like they committed a gory murder five minutes later," Sam said. "Oh, and successfully hiding blood-soaked clothes from the deputies' search."

"Yeah, but before that. Right, my second question. Jess. At the service you and Casey and Betsy were all wearing the same thing, almost like a uniform. I thought maybe it was a Council thing, but you said just now that Sue-Ann's on the Council, and she wasn't dressed like that. And, from the way people talk to you and the way Casey can walk through a crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, I get the feeling you gals are especially important."

Jess took a long drink of tea.

"So," Dean persisted, "are you like Super-Scholars or – "

"Something like that. Yes."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. "Talk to me, Jess," Dean said. "Remember, there's no point in my doing this if I don't know everything you know."

"I'll tell you later. But I don't want to hurt Sam."

Dean's jaw literally dropped.

Quietly and distinctly, Sam said, "That ship sailed, Jess."

She looked at him quickly. "Yeah, I – yeah." Deliberately, she focused on Dean's face. "Casey and Betsy and I are Brides of the Messenger." Her breath ran short and she took a second. Sam's only visible reaction was that his breath sped up. "I was thinking, should I say we 'were' Brides of the Messenger? But I don't think so. We have some responsibilities that still go on, and there was a spiritual – aspect, I think, that, that binds us to him even – "

"Wait a damn minute." Dean's bark startled Sam and Jess both. "Are you telling me that Cas and me are faithful to each other, and we're too disgusting for precious Lifeblood principles, and this – guy, got three wives?"

"He wasn't a 'guy,' Dean. He was the Messenger of God."

Dean made a disgusted sound.

"And I've been talking to Nick about the homosexuality doctrine, Dean. I wanted to be sure that it was truly a message and not something so set in his background that he thought it was of God. But I had to be very careful – "

"Because otherwise you wind up wearing a chain for nine days."

"What?" Sam yelled.

Jess held up her hands as if warding off a flood of indignation. "It's just a loop of chain, Sam. Like a big necklace. It's heavy, but it doesn't hurt. It's a symbol of doctrinal impurity."

She looked at the tabletop. "This is hard to explain. Nick was a conduit between God and humanity. He had a lot of pain, he had a lot of ideas. He needed – All three of us helped him in his communion with God and his communication with people. With slightly different emphasis. I was the Bride of his Mind, Betsy the Bride of his Spirit, Casey the Bride of his Body."

Dean said, "Does that – mean – "

She gave him a you-asked-for-it look. "We all acted as wives to him, Dean. But you can't understand that when all you think of is the sexual aspect. I mean, you and Cas – Is your relationship only about sex? Is that the only common, healing – building thing between you?"

"Well, no."

"Well, exactly." She shot a look at Sam, who looked like a petrified shell containing a pulverized interior. "I didn't want to go into this. You wanted me to."

"Yeah," Dean said. "You're right."

There was a moment of silence.

"Anyway," Jess said, "it's just a – thing to know about Lifeblood. It's not relevant to what we're trying to, to find out."

Suddenly, Sam picked up the folder of papers he'd brought with him and dropped it on the table in front of Jess.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," he said.

"Sam?" Dean's tone was a little startled.

"You asked me to research Nick Munroe," Sam said. "It took all week, partly because I had a lot of classwork and partly because it was hard to locate information about him before Lifeblood started up in Lawrence."

"He came from Chicago," Jess said helpfully. She tried a smile. "He was in a gang when he was younger, so they probably didn't post too many of their activities on the Internet."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I started with his bio on the Lifeblood website and Googled my way from there. I started with 'Nick Munroe Chicago,' got nowhere, and broadened it to a universal 'Nick Munroe.' And pretty far back in the search, I found this."

He opened the folder, twisting it a bit so that Dean, too, could see a copy of a newspaper tearsheet that had been scanned onto a website. It was a play review headlined, "A Surrey with Turbo," about a production of "Oklahoma!" at the Prairie Village Summer Theatre in Kansas 18 years before. Sam had highlighted the sentence, "Although his singing is weak, Nick Munroe Canosa's brilliant smile and unstoppable energy let him carry off the role of Will."

"There were a couple of other partial matches, and those came out to dead ends. But I emailed the Prairie Village Summer Theatre about this one, asked if they had any cast photos of that production they could scan in and send me, and – among others – they sent this."

He turned the page, showing a printout of a black-and-white photo. A pretty, pouty girl in very ruffled Western costume, obviously Ado Annie, crossed her arms and looked up over her shoulder at a tall young man standing behind her and smiling down impudently at her – obviously the character Will Parker, and obviously the future Messenger of God.

"So – " Although Sam's voice was quiet, it was filled with ill-disguised if justified satisfaction – "somewhere between being in a gang in Chicago and serving time for a crime he didn't commit, Nick found time to do summer theater in the suburbiest suburb of the Kansas City area."

Jess said nothing, blinking fast as she looked at the picture. Dean said, "OK, Sam. But we're looking for a murder motive, not resume padding."

Sam nodded. "Right. Well, using 'Nick Canosa,' I was able to find more stuff. I'll show 'em to you in chronological order." He turned the page, showing a printout from the website of the Aurora, Illinois chapter of a national business networking association. The heading was, "OUR Leaders Have Always Been COMMUNITY Leaders," and it listed the officers for each year of the group's existence. Sam's highlighting emphasized that Nick M. Canosa had been elected Vice President 13 years before.

"As you can see, he did get to Chicago – or, anyway, the Chicago area," Sam said. "I'm pretty sure that's him, because – " he turned another page, showing a printout of an archived newspaper article – "he also gave a speech at this commemoration in Aurora."

The picture, of speakers lined up on an outdoor platform at a 9-11 commemoration, was a grainy black-and-white, but again, the face of the speaker standing in front of the microphone, his expression and gesture both implying great animation, was perfectly recognizable.

"I'm not sure what took him to Chicago, but we know what he was doing for at least a few of those years."

He turned the page to show a color printout of a very busy website home page. Tabs in mid-size print across the top asked, "Why Is My Work Unsatisfying?" "Why Can't I Find Love?" "Why Do I Lack Energy?" "Can I Find Financial Security?" "Why Am I Uninspired?" A deep orange background set off two banner lines, one in black print saying, "Don't Survive With Lies When You Can," then in a huge vivid blue and white, "LiveWithTruth!"

On both sides of a central picture were links to articles and letters of recommendation. The large central picture showed "Nicholas Canosa, Founder and Life Coach" – his elbows propped on a table in front of him, his hands raised slightly and clasped as if he were listening to a confession, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to the elbow, mustachioed and bearded, gazing into the camera with seductive intensity.

Dean snorted and looked away from the picture, obviously trying to control laughter. Jess just kept staring at the folder's contents.

Sam sounded quite gentle. "The principles of LiveWithTruth are actually pretty similar to Lifeblood principles. Just making a lot of money won't make you feel successful for long. Gadgets won't fulfill you. It even gets a little spiritual in the article about 'Why Am I Uninspired'? Mostly, though, it's pretty standard self-help stuff – get the job you want, the love you want, increase your self-esteem. I think this must be cached somewhere – there's a reference to George W. Bush that makes it sound like he's the current president, and when I sent them an email a message flew back saying it wasn't a valid email address."

He looked at Dean, who by now had mastered the art of the straight face. "I was thinking this might be something. Like, if some unhappy crazy person took the weekend class with a hundred other people, and he was still an unhappy crazy person and decided it was Nick's fault, and tracked him down here. He could – or she – could join Lifeblood and Nick would never know that they'd been in a LiveWithTruth class, and then they'd either wait for Nick to make them all better or, you know, kill him."

Dean's mouth quirked. "Sounds pretty 'CSI.'"

"True. And I came across a lot better motive anyway."

He turned the page, showing another archived newspaper article. Another black-and-white picture, close up on the faces of two people, a man and a woman in their 30s, close together, both smiling, and the woman had a band of small white flowers in her hair. The caption was simply, "Duran-Canosa."

Dean looked at Sam in surprise. "He's married married?"

"That's Betsy," Jess said quietly.

Dean's gaze dropped right back down again. "My God, it is."

"That's Betsy?" Sam exclaimed. "Well, sure. Elizabeth Duran – Betsy – duh, Sam." He rapped his forehead lightly.

"She had sad eyes even then," Jess said, still not looking up.

"From what you tell me – Well, no, you know, I still think she's a good suspect," Sam said. "I mean, she marries a motivational speaker. Then one day, he decides he's a messenger of God, moves her to another state, changes his name, and next thing you know, he's got two other women he's calling brides."

"Did Nick ever tell you – or, you know, anyone – that Betsy was his legal wife?" Dean asked Jess quietly. She gave a tiny shake of her head.

"At some point he changed his name legally to Nick Munroe," Sam said, mercifully turning to the next page in the folder. "At least, I assume so, because he formed Lifeblood under that name. That's the Articles of Incorporation, off the Kansas Secretary of State's website. I also looked at the most recent Annual Report filed with the Secretary of State, and Lifeblood's most recent 990-EZ filed with the IRS." He turned the two pages in succession.

"You can look up people's tax returns online?" Dean gasped.

Sam grinned. "Not people's. But tax-exempt groups file these 990s that are public access."

"Damn, Sam. Are you sure you're not in law school already?"

Sam chuckled. "Anyway, those last two documents don't really have anything interesting in them except that – Well, for one thing, I didn't realize how much money Lifeblood takes in, and also Elizabeth Canosa is listed as a Director of Lifeblood in both documents. Since you hadn't mentioned an Elizabeth, I was thinking he was keeping her stashed away somewhere. Guess what, Sam, Betsy is a nickname for Elizabeth."

"So she's still Canosa even though her husband changed his name to Munroe? Be interesting to know why," Dean said, and Sam nodded.

Jess looked up, but not directly at either of them. "But there's no way Betsy could have killed him. She was hysterical that night. She's been grieving, I mean grieving intensely, ever since. She – "

"But think about it this way," Dean said. "Suppose, just for an hour, or even less, she got that hysterically angry, or that hysterically jealous. Suppose all that intensity went the wrong way."

"And that could be part of why she's grieving so intensely," Sam said. "If she's not just bereaved, but guilty. Remorseful."

Jess, looking overwhelmed, shook her head.

"OK," Dean said. "If that's the end of your report, Sam, I think it's about time to wrap this up. We know Jess is making progress toward getting me into Heartland. We know Nick had a wife who had real good reasons for jealousy and anger. We know he was a life coach in Chicago, and either that didn't go too well or he decided he could do better as a Messenger of God, but we – "

"Or he had a revelation," Jess said.

After a moment, Dean said, "You know, Jess, if we're gonna pull this off, we're going to have to deal with the truth about the guy."

"And that could be the truth. He was trying to help people with pop psychology and, and self-help talks, and he knew it wasn't enough, and God spoke to him."

"And told him to go to Kansas and lie about his background to everyone?"

"Sometimes that's necessary. Lifeblood saves people. Sometimes, to save people, you have to present things to them in a way they can accept. That's probably what Clark was doing with you, Dean," she said, sounding a little startled herself as the idea came to her. "If you were a woman, he might have flirted with you a little, so you'd enjoy being there and think of Lifeblood as a group where you feel attractive and accepted. Since you're a man, he couldn't outright flirt, but he – he acted like he found you attractive, so you'd want to come back."

"And that's OK with you? You really don't see anything wrong with that?"

"Do I see anything wrong with doing whatever it takes to save people? No."

"The world enslaves," Sam said quietly, "deception saves."

"You don't know, Sam. You don't know what it's like never to feel good enough. And then to find people who say, you can be good enough."

"As long as you're not doctrinally impure."

Jess jumped to her feet and Dean swung his legs aside rapidly as she stormed out from behind the coffee table. "I have to get back. I told them I was shopping for the bakery, so I need to stop at the store."

Dean stood, too, as she reached the door. "Jess, don't forget why we're doing all this. I want to keep your people from getting Sam accused as a murderer. You want to find enough evidence to point to one person, so the law and the press don't come down on the whole group. Let's not lose sight of the goals."

"I'm not," she said, and slammed the door on her way out.

Dean looked down at Sam, who was tapping the edges of his research on the table to straighten the pages. "Sorry, Sam. It's me she's pissed at, not you."

"It's herself," Sam said, looking up. "She knows she was played. She can't believe she was played that way. It'll take her a while to admit it. But she knows."

"That thing about her never feeling good enough – did you know that?"

"I know she sets really high standards for herself, and of course if you set really high standards you're not gonna live up to them a lot of the time. I didn't realize that she thought that meant she was never good enough. I wonder if her folks even know that."

"Well, Sam, the setting-impossibly-high-standards thing came from somewhere. Speaking of the Moores – "

"Yeah." Sam drew out the word. "I haven't really figured out how to approach that yet. Give me a day or two."

Dean sat down again. "Sam, about – that question. I'm really sorry. I thought those three gals were keepers of some big secret or guardians of some cult treasure, something that might have got Munroe killed. I had no idea where that was going."

"You know, I kind of knew, I mean, I figured – " Sam was focusing on the tabletop. "I just tried not to think about it, 'cause, you know, we're not together anymore, none of my business, and it just kind of made me – somewhat – insane – You know the rotten thing?" he asked, suddenly looking up at Dean.

"What's the rotten thing?"

"When the detectives told me that Munroe got killed, my first thought was, Maybe I can get Jess back."

"Well, Sam, don't kick yourself. Probably everyone who loves Jess thought that. For sure her parents did."

"Yeah, but – 'A guy got killed horribly! And it's all about what I want!' Not cool."

There was a quiet moment.

"You know what we're gonna do," Dean said. "We're gonna go out for a big fat dinner. My treat."

"I'm still too young for them to serve me beer in restaurants," Sam said.

Dean took a beat.

"You know what we're gonna do," he said in the exact same tone as before. "We're gonna order in a big fat pizza. My treat. And we're gonna leave the crumbs scattered all over for Cas to clean up, whenever he gets home."

"Sounds about right," Sam said with a nod.

.

Sitting on the sofa, books and papers on the coffee table in front of him, Cas tapped two fingers on a paragraph in one of the books. He was looking inquisitively at Balthazar, who was sitting close beside him. Balthazar put his hand next to Cas' on the page. "More in the past than that," he said in his sardonic drawl. "Not so much 'would be' as – "

"'Would have been,'" Cas said.

Balthazar smiled. "Exactly. And you can see why – "

The door opened. Cas pulled his hand back as he turned; Balthazar's face went in a flash from irritated to bored.

"Oh. Oh, hi, Dean," Cas said, looking curiously from Dean to the beautiful brunette woman who walked in with him.

Dean planted himself beside the chair and said in an ominous tone, "Cas, we have to talk."

Cas looked at Casey, then back to Dean, and without moving his head flicked his gaze at Balthazar. "Can't we do this later?"

Dean looked at Casey, who said, "You've made a commitment or you haven't, Dean. And you know what's right."

"Yeah." Dean nodded and drew a breath. "I do." He looked back at Cas. "I mean, I think you've seen this coming. We both have."

"You – seen – What?"

Dean drew another breath, very deep, with the slightest glance at Balthazar. "It's wrong, Cas. I know sometimes it seems perfect, but we both know it's just not right for guys to be together. It's – unnatural."

Cas drew in on himself, sitting back on the sofa, but his voice sounded cool and superior. "It's very natural to me, Dean. And it certainly seemed natural to you the other night."

Dean cleared an obstruction in his throat. "I, well, yeah, I mean, yeah, but that's just temptation. I walk around all day feeling like crap and just because, I mean, yeah, you're great. I mean, in a lot of ways. But – " He seemed to pull himself together. "I need something more, Cas. I need something that'll make me feel right inside all the time. Right with God, right with other people." He gestured vaguely. "This just isn't it."

Cas stood. "How many times have we been through this, Dean? You just don't understand – or you don't want to understand. Fine. I could try to convince you again, but I'm just too tired. I give up. Go."

Dean started for the bedroom, paused, turned back. "It's not you, y'know. It's – the situation, is immoral. But I'd feel that way with any guy. It's not you."

"If you're going, get out."

Dean went back to the bedroom. Casey darted a long amused glance between Cas and Balthazar, then followed him.

Dean put a suitcase on the bed, opened it, then reached under the bed and pulled out a leather case which he dropped into the suitcase. "I packed some shaving and washing stuff earlier, so I could get this over with fast," he said.

"That was a good idea."

Dean opened the top drawer of the dresser on his side of the bed, pulled out an armload of T-shirts, underwear and socks, and dumped it into the suitcase. He opened the second drawer and pulled out two pair of jeans.

"This is the hardest part," Casey said. "I'm not saying it'll be easy after this, but if you can get through this part, everything else will be easier."

"God, I hope so," Dean said, opening the closet door.

Casey wandered over to the other dresser while Dean put a couple of shirts into the suitcase. She picked something up, then hefted it with a smile. "These cufflinks are real gold. Are they yours?"

"No. Cas' mom and dad gave them to him."

"Too bad." Casey put them down. "The Primary Tithe doesn't have to be money, you know. It can be an in-kind gift to the movement."

Dean thought for a moment. "Yeah, but I really haven't got anything that the movement could use. Unless it needs my Sports Illustrated subscription." He smiled humorlessly, putting two pair of shoes into a bag. "Like I told you, when the trust makes a deposit into my account at the first of the month, I can make my Primary Tithe then. Hope that's OK."

"There's no rush."

Dean tried to close the suitcase lying on the bed, but it was too full. He slammed down on the lid twice.

Casey went over beside him, put a hand on his wrist. He stepped back, breathing heavily, clenching his hands, but she kept a cool delicate hand on his arm. "What is Lifeblood?" she asked.

"Lifeblood is soul. Lifeblood is substance. Lifeblood is the essence of God. Lifeblood is soul. Lifeblood is substance. Lifeblood is the essence of God."

She nodded. "Good. Keep thinking it, even when you're not saying it out loud." She turned to the suitcase, pulled out the toiletries case and put it into the bag with the shoes. Then she pushed the clothes in the case around to even them out, and closed it easily.

She smiled at Dean, who was standing still. "Winter's coming. You'll need a coat."

"Right," he said, and pulled his brown leather jacket out of the closet. She extended an arm, and he gave it to her. Then he picked up the suitcase and bag.

"You're walking into a whole new life, Dean," Casey said. "And I know how it feels. It's scary and sad. But it's also exhilarating. Everything new, from now on. Unconditional love and support from a whole new family. The adventure is just beginning."

Out in the living room, Cas was pacing, Balthazar looking up at him. "Maybe you should," Cas said. "I doubt if I'm going to be able to concentrate anyway."

Dean and Casey came into the room, and Cas looked over their burdens. "How long is this going to take?"

"This is all. You can have the rest of my stuff. We don't need a lot of property at Heartland."

"Heartland?" Cas started to say, but Casey suddenly said, "Oh, Dean! That big old car you drove to the meeting last week! That would be a perfect Primary Tithe!"

Dean froze.

Then Cas' voice, knife-edged: "The Impala is half mine, Dean. You can't give it to anyone unless I sign off on it."

"Oh. Yeah." Dean looked at Casey. "Sorry."

Casey looked at Cas with no love. "Well, if you're going to have the full use of it, it seems like you should pay Dean for his half."

"He's a grad student. He's not exactly made of money."

"No, that's fine," Cas said. "I'll pay you a little at a time. Fine with me."

"I could loan you the money," Balthazar said, and all three of them looked at him. "I'd be happy to help you get past this."

"No. Thank you," Cas said. "I'd rather do it myself."

"All right then," Casey said. "Dean?"

Dean moved toward the door, then dropped the bag and suitcase. "Just one more," he said as he moved rapidly into the room. Then he grabbed Cas.

The other two could tell that he whispered something in Cas' ear; they couldn't tell that it was, "I owe you for saving the Impala." Then he gave Cas a passionate farewell kiss.

Balthazar watched as if riveted for a moment, then paid great attention to one of the open books in front of him. Casey watched the whole kiss with a tiny smile.

Then Dean broke away, said, "Sorry. I'm sorry," and went back to pick up his bag and suitcase. Casey opened the door, and the two of them left as abruptly as they'd arrived.

Cas stood still, slowly running one thumb along his lower lip.

After a moment, Balthazar said, "I had no idea things were so bad. You've been keeping this all inside."

"Mm," Cas said. "It's – I'll tell you all about it later. Right now maybe it's best if I just deal with it alone."

Balthazar stood and moved next to Cas, murmuring low, "Are you sure you want to be alone?"

Cas, perfectly still, nodded.

Balthazar went to the door, passing one hand gently over the back of Cas' shoulders as he went. "Call me if you need anything," he said, and left.

Cas dropped down on the sofa, resting his head on its back.

"Ach du lieber," he said, and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Clearly, the decision to admit Dean to Heartland had been told to everyone who lived there. Everyone knew his name; everyone greeted him with a handshake or hug and told him how glad they were that he was there. His living quarters were Spartan – a twin bed and nightstand, one dresser drawer, and space in a closet, all located in the basement, which he shared with Max, Dirk, and Rosco – but a friendly sign, "Welcome, Dean!", on the nightstand greeted him, along with an autographed copy of Nick's self-published book, "Greed and Gratification." A cubicle of a bathroom, which looked as if it had only in the last few years been installed, served the four basement residents as well as Clark; it held a sink, a small free-standing cabinet, a toilet and a shower.

Casey gave him a tour after he'd dropped his bags and before dinner. She withstood his occasional smart-aleck comments and he withstood constant hugs and grins.

Two large rooms fronted the house's first floor, with wide windows giving a view of the gravel road and a neighbor's fields beyond. One front room was decorated with new, rather elegant furniture, presumably for the benefit of guests, potential members, and reporters. A small lavatory, also beautifully appointed, was next to this room, accessible only by a door from the hall.

The other front room looked like a small house had exploded inside of it. Dean got a confused glimpse of big pieces of furniture, electronic cables, books, boxes and fabric before he heard Casey make an exasperated sound. She went back to the front door and opened it, revealing Rosco sweeping the front porch. "Is Eve back yet?"

"Yeah, I think she's in the kitchen helping with dinner."

Casey nodded, closed the door, did an about-face and shouted toward the back of the house. "Eve!"

Eve made a rapid appearance. She was a pale pretty girl with dark rumpled hair, her face innocent of makeup except for eye make-up, which was applied to Goth levels. She had even drawn a Lifeblood droplet at the outer corner of one eye. She wore a skirt and blouse of white gauze, her Lifeblood pendant nestled in the cleavage revealed by the low-cut scoop neck. The effect was of deep spirituality as interpreted by a Valley Girl.

"Yes, Casey," she said in the tone of a little girl trying to sound adult.

Casey simply pointed into the room. Eve sighed and headed over toward an unmade sofa bed, saying, "Most of this mess isn't mine, you know."

Having had a moment to assess the room, Dean understood it. The part closest to the hall looked like the Lifeblood library, books and magazines and even spiritually-oriented comic books arrayed on three tall sets of bookshelves. A table and chair were near one of the bookcases, books and a laptop computer on the table, books piled in two banker's boxes on the floor while other boxes, flat and unassembled, leaned against the shelves. The farther side of the room held a desk with a laptop computer hooked up to numerous cables, speakers, and it looked like two printers. More utilitarian steel shelves held manuals, discs, and a lot of electronic accessories, including a couple of microphones.

And jammed between the IT center and the library were a tall free-standing cabinet and a nightstand on either side of a sofa bed, on which Eve was now throwing linens straight.

"But you can take responsibility for the part of the mess that is yours," Casey said to Eve. "We strive for perfection on all levels, you know – everything from mission work to cleaning our bedrooms."

Dean was standing closer to Eve than Casey was, so he heard Eve mumble, "Oh yeah, this is so the path to fulfillment," as she put her pillow on the shelf of her clothes cabinet. She turned back to fold up the sofa bed, and Dean said, "Let me help you with that."

They folded it back into a sofa, and Eve looked up at him with a soulful gaze. "You have great spiritual gifts. I can tell."

In the Valley Girl voice. Dean kept his composure. "Thanks."

Eve plopped a long cushion on the sofa, asked Casey, "OK?", and Casey said, "Yes, Eve. Thank you. Try to remember in the future."

Eve swirled her hair as she turned and went back to the kitchen. Casey said ruefully, "I cannot wait until we get to New Mexico and get the dorm built."

The rooms that looked out the back of the house, with a view of the meeting house and a ramshackle barn beyond, were the kitchen, a large dining room, and Clark's bedroom. Dean admitted later to a twinge of resentment at learning that Clark had his own room, and then to no envy at all when he saw it. It might have made a large pantry, but it made a monk's cell of a bedroom.

On the second floor were four bedrooms and two baths. The two bedrooms facing the front were divided by a bathroom accessible from the hall; those two bedrooms were one shared by Sue-Ann and Gloria, and one that had served as Nick's office.

A wall had been moved between the two bedrooms that looked out the back. The master bedroom was smaller than it had been originally, although it still had access to a full master bath. That bedroom had been Nick's; the enlarged bedroom was shared by all three Brides.

("And now we know what the boys in the basement spend their nights thinking about," Sam said later, when informed of the setup.)

Casey led him out the kitchen door down the slope past the meeting house to the gardens beyond, which even in late September were still good for a few potatoes and carrots.

"We were originally going to use the barn as a meeting house," she said, gesturing to it, "but as you can see – "

"Yeah, I wondered about that. But up closer you can see that it sort of lists."

"And because of that, the door doesn't close properly. And there's a huge hole in the roof. I don't even want to think about what's living in there. We should probably tear it down, but I think we're all hoping that gravity will do it for us. Meantime, if you go in there, please send your ghost back to tell me what it was like."

"Got it."

Dinner began with grace and a short speech by Clark that could be described as a somber pep talk. He urged everyone to keep up their spirits, that while Lifeblood might be staggering in the absence of God's Messenger, they would learn to walk again with greater strength.

"I know," he said with calm certainty, "that we will receive a message, a revelation, soon. I know that, as surely as we grieve now, we will be informed and inspired later."

Casey gave a quick eye-roll, so fast that Dean wasn't sure anyone but himself saw it.

Dinner itself was cheerier, everyone peppering Dean with questions. He glibly passed over details about his fictitious construction work and instead told a couple of stories about the real summer he spent working in a salt mine. Even Dirk seemed less depressed, smiling a little as he held a murmured conversation with Gloria, who was sitting next to him. The table actually applauded when Jess brought out two big banana cream pies for dessert, in recognition of Dean joining them.

After dinner, Casey took him to the only part of the compound he hadn't toured yet, a small old trailer home that sat next to, but a little removed from, the house. A couple of the rooms were piled with chaotic storage. A third had white plates, saucers, and bowls stacked on a table with two chairs beside it.

"We thought, the Brides, that new dishes would make a great going-away present for Clark. We're taking all the dishes to New Mexico, of course, and ours are all mismatched and old anyway. We figured twelve place settings with the Lifeblood logo would show Clark that we knew he'd grow Heartland here back to its present strength."

"They look like the dishes from paint-it-yourself places."

"Exactly. I got them at Sunfire Ceramics, and then they'll fire them when we're done painting. But we thought it would be easier to bring the dishes here and paint them in our spare moments than paint them there. Betsy printed out the Lifeblood logo and she was stenciling it onto the plates when." The sentence ended abruptly, and Casey sighed. "Jess and I kind of haven't had the heart for it, but Betsy, bless her heart, she keeps working on them. I ought to get here more. We'll be leaving pretty soon."

After a moment, she looked up, smiled, and pointed to the room across the narrow hallway. "Last stop on the tour."

This room had a blackboard, a few chairs that faced it and faced away from the windows, and a small lectern. "Let me guess – classroom," Dean said.

"Have a seat," Casey said, and took a piece of paper from the lectern. Still standing, she handed it to him. "It's your work schedule, based on what you already told me."

.

WORKING TOWARD FULFILLMENT: DEAN

MONDAY THROUGH THURSDAY

5:00 Morning bell

5:30 Breakfast

6:00 Clean bathrooms

6:45 A driver will take you to Singer's Auto Repair

Noon You have a dispensation to eat lunch on your own, but we suggest that you eat at noon, saying a Lifeblood blessing before and after the meal, so that you can feel in communion with Lifeblood members who are doing the same at Heartland.

6:00 A driver will pick you up and return you to Heartland

6:15 Unscheduled

7:00 Dinner

8:00 Finish cleaning bathrooms

9:00 Probationer class

10:00 Return to room; unscheduled time

10:30 Night bell. Lights out

On Wednesdays at 8:00 p.m., you will attend the Lifeblood worship meeting rather than cleaning.

FRIDAY THROUGH SUNDAY

5:00 Morning bell

5:30 Breakfast

6:00 Chores and maintenance as assigned that day

11:00 Unscheduled time

Noon Lunch

1:00 Mission work in Lawrence or Kansas City. Pairing will be in effect.

7:00 Dinner

8:00 Unscheduled time

9:00 Probationer class

10:00 Return to room; unscheduled time

10:30 Night bell. Lights out

On Sundays at 8:00 p.m., you will attend the Lifeblood worship meeting in place of unscheduled time.

.

"What strikes you?" Casey asked, when he'd had a chance to read it through.

"Well," Dean said. "Not a lot of unscheduled time."

She nodded as if expecting the response. "Can you think why that is?"

Dean hesitated. "Well, in my case, it means I won't have a lot of time to miss Cas."

"It's not just your case. Everyone has addictions and foul desires when they come to Lifeblood. It's just in the nature of the Misled. Well – idle hands, you know the saying. At Heartland there are very few idle hands. They learn – you will learn – how to redirect your desires and energy toward goals that lead to true joy, true fulfillment." She made a little moue. "Sorry about cleaning bathrooms, by the way. The newbies always get that one."

Dean nodded. "Not a problem. What does 'Pairing will be in effect' mean?"

"Probationers and Accepters only leave Heartland accompanied by someone of higher rank. Can you understand why that is?"

Dean swallowed. "I suppose it has something to do with the addictions and foul desires thing."

"Exactly. In Lifeblood, we hold ourselves to a high standard of purity. Perfection is the goal. The world is just too full of temptations for someone who hasn't yet advanced spiritually to a certain level. Gloria could probably be a Scholar by now, but she values the structured life of an Accepter. She had such a serious drug problem that she was selling herself to get money for drugs. Dirk was drinking, got into a lot of fights both in and out of bars. Neither of them really wants to be allowed to run free anywhere at any time. They know what they'd do. Suppose you were on your own, Dean, and – what's his name, Cas? – found you and begged you to sink back to his level. Or you met some other good-looking submissive guy. At this time, how long would you be able to fight the temptation?"

"I see your point."

"For that reason, Clark will drive you to work tomorrow, and he'll talk to your boss – is it Mr. Singer? He's going to request that if you take too much time off for lunch or leave work early, that Mr. Singer call Clark to let him know. We'd like you to confirm with Mr. Singer that these are your wishes too."

After a moment, Dean said, "Maybe you better let me ask about that. I mean, with Clark there, of course. But Bobby's a – little rough around the edges, and I don't know how well he'd respond to Clark telling him how to deal with his personnel."

"If you make the request, that's even better."

"So I'm the only Probationer right now, right? How do I work my way up to Accepter?"

"When you fully accept the way of life and laws of Lifeblood. You'll have a meeting with the Council in which you show your knowledge of Lifeblood doctrine, both from the books and in hypothetical real-world examples. There will be payment of the Secondary Tithe, and an initiation ritual where you'll get your Lifeblood pendant. And then a celebration." She smiled.

"And kind of the same thing when you move up from Accepter to Scholar?"

"Yes."

"But, Bride – That's like a whole different thing."

She nodded demurely. "But of course the Messenger would never have taken anyone as a Bride who hadn't advanced in spirituality to Scholar level."

"Hey, can I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"At dinner tonight, Clark was talking about how we'd be getting a revelation soon on how to run Lifeblood after, after the Messenger. You kind of looked – not disgusted, but a little exasperated. Why?"

She drew in and let out a breath before answering. "We had our revelation, in the Messenger's words. God doesn't just manufacture revelations, or Messengers, like loaves of bread – pick up another one when the last one's gone. In a way, I think we've had our second revelation. God allowed the Messenger to be taken from us. There was a reason for that. However hard it is, we need to select a leader and move on, spreading the message, relying on our knowledge and belief even without the Messenger's physical presence."

"Who would be the new leader?"

"Probably Clark."

"But then – why doesn't he just say, OK, I'll be the leader, but let's all still listen for a revelation?"

Casey paused. "I'm not saying this is the case here. But you know how, for some people, it's easier to stand on the sidelines critiquing than to step up to the plate?"

Dean grinned. "Well, I've enjoyed not talking to you about Clark."

She nodded. "Well, kind of informal and short, but this was your first Probationer class. You'll start with a full class tomorrow. But I want to wrap up this one as I wrap up a full class."

She drew a blood drop in the middle of the chalkboard with pinkish-red chalk and stepped away from the board. "I want you to focus on that symbol, only on that symbol. Try to make it fill your whole field of vision. Your shoulders are a little tense. Don't strain. Just relax, let the Lifeblood emblem fill your eyes and your mind." She waited a moment. "Now. Repeat the 'Lifeblood is soul' chant until I tell you to stop. Begin now."

"Lifeblood is soul. Lifeblood is substance. Lifeblood is the essence of God. Lifeblood is soul. Lifeblood is substance. Lifeblood is the . . . "

After a while, he got a little angry. At the most, he had a murderer to catch; at the least, he needed to get some sleep before springing out of bed, a happy Lifeblood Probationer, at 5:00 tomorrow morning. Anyway, there was a lot of stuff he could be doing besides sitting here saying the same thing over and over. It was visually irritating; the dark board was engulfing him, the blood droplet almost vibrated in the middle of it. He blinked rapidly, but was corrected when he looked away. Incredibly boring and not educational. It did help as he grew more relaxed, stopped trying to think about other stuff. He thought maybe he was whispering by now, but as long as his lips kept moving he was

"Dean."

He jerked awake and swore. "Sorry. I mean, for swearing and for falling asleep."

"Don't worry about it," Casey said. Her smile was beautiful, and the Lifeblood pendant at her throat caught his eye. "You did very very well for a Probationer. I think you might set a record for moving on to Accepter."

"Ah, I bet you say that to all the Probationers," he said with a smile, as they left the room.

Casey was at the door of the trailer when Dean remembered. "Forgot my schedule. Hang on."

He had picked up his schedule from the classroom floor when light from somewhere made him look up.

With his back to the board, he was looking out the classroom windows. Down by the meeting hall, someone's movement had obviously triggered the floodlight on the tall post. The figure looked somewhat small from here, but not so small that Dean didn't recognize Dirk, dodging out of the light field and continuing to walk in the darkness toward the gardens or the barn.

"Dean?" Casey called.

"Right," he said, turned off the classroom light and left.

.

The next morning, Sunday, Dean was mowing the slope between the meeting house below and the house and trailer home above. Max was mowing the level ground around the meeting house, and when they finished they were near each other. They cut the mowers, and Dean offered a high-five hand which Max, after a moment, slapped lightly.

"Where do these go?" Dean asked, wiping his face with his hand.

Max pointed up at the house. "In the garage. Break first."

"Sounds good to me."

Dean followed Max to the back door of the meeting hall. As they went, he glanced up at a cable that ran from the top of the tall meeting house lamppost to the top of the main house. "Is that the wiring for the light out front of the meeting house?"

"Yeah. PA system, too, you can see the speaker mounted on the pole below the light." Max smiled briefly. "It's not pretty where the wiring goes into the house, but it's not gonna catch the house on fire, either."

"That's all that matters. Then the controls are in your mad scientist's lab?"

Max smiled again. Twice in a matter of seconds: Dean wouldn't have thought it was possible. "Yeah."

"So the only way to shut off that light is to get into the house or climb a 15-foot pole."

"That was the idea, to make it difficult or obvious that someone was screwing around with the light. For all the good it did."

They were inside the back door of the meeting house, where it was dim and cool. There were windows, but they were narrow and set high in the walls, and the light from windows in the front part of the room was mostly blocked by the long vinyl banner, the back of which they could see from here. Max went over to a big utility sink, took a box of paper cups from the shelf above it, gave one to Dean and filled a cup for himself.

As he was doing this, Dean said, "You can't kick yourself about that. If someone's determined enough, they can kill the President. For sure they can kill a guy in Kansas."

Max nodded, pushing the banner slightly aside as he took his cup into the meeting room, and said, "Watch the platform."

Just at that moment Dean kicked something, but it wasn't the platform, it was metallic. He looked down at a big old washtub and three buckets stacked inside it. Then he walked around the banner and the platform and sat in one of the meeting-house chairs near Max.

"Anyway, they probably came in the back," Dean said. "The light's a motion sensor, right?"

Max, swallowing water, nodded. "Mostly it's just to make sure people don't fall at nighttime worship. It kicks on when people start going in, shines until five minutes after motion has stopped, and then kicks back in when people start coming out."

"Are you – we – gonna have the same setup in New Mexico?"

"In New Mexico there's going to be an actual lighted parking lot next to the meeting house."

"Wooa, big time!" Dean said jovially. Max gave him a quick suspicious look, seemed to realize that Dean was laughing with and not at him, and grinned quickly. "Yeah, it'll be nice."

Dean finished his water. "Did you use the PA system? That night?"

Max shook his head. "Didn't need to. First there was Jess screaming for help, and then there was Betsy, just – screaming. You could hear it all over."

"Betsy was in the same trailer with you guys, though, wasn't she? How'd she get down here so fast?"

"Betsy surprises you. Just when you think she's totally out of it, she makes a really on-point comment. She looks all helpless, but it wouldn't surprise me if she was a track runner in high school or something."

Dean stretched out his legs. "Everyone, well, mostly everyone, was in class with you, right? Except Jess told me there was a Probationer here then, and I thought Accepters and Probationers had different classes. If they pull me into an Accepter class, I'm gonna bomb."

"They won't. This was a special class between the two days of the Festival of True Joy. We spend two solid days among the Misled, and Casey though it'd be a good idea to have a reinforcement class in the middle. Mostly just repetition of Lifeblood principles."

"Lotta chanting."

"Lotta chanting. It's kind of relaxing, really."

"Well, I could handle that," Dean said.

"Hi there, you two," said a little-girl voice behind them. "Is everything OK?"

"We're fine," Max said, as he and Dean turned to see Eve standing at the front door. "Does someone need the meeting hall?"

"No. I just saw you come in, and, you know – " Her eyes were darting back and forth between them, even at the distance between their shoulders – "I thought I'd make sure everything's OK."

"It's all fine," Dean said, his voice rather hard. "I'm not seducing him."

Eve laughed a little hysterically. "You are a hoot, Dean. Really, a hoot. Well. If you guys don't need anything, I've got to get started on lunch."

"We'll be back up to put the mowers in the garage in a couple minutes," Max said.

Eve fluttered away, and Dean said, "Kinda nosy, huh?"

"Eve? Nah. Someone probably sent her in to check."

"Someone saw us come in here and sent her to make sure we were behaving ourselves?"

Max shrugged. "Hey, we mean what we say about striving for perfection at all times. People are gonna check to make sure you're not bringing the ways of the Misled into Heartland."

"Well – yeah. Yeah, I guess I can see that."

"At first the rules seem like a pain," Max said. "But once you get used to them, they're no big deal. And some of 'em are really constructive. No tobacco, no drugs, no alcohol. No physical violence allowed. Ever. It's like a real family should be."

Dean, his expression suddenly sympathetic, nodded.

"And, you know, so what if they check on you? The Messenger used to say, 'Those who have nothing to hide have nothing to fear.'"

Dean nodded. "That's good. So, Dirk wandering around last night down toward the barn – Was he checking on something? Or is that something where someone should check on him?"

Max looked at him, a little surprised. "Don't know. But he was wandering around that night, the night – of the reinforcement class. Casey was not happy that he wasn't there. But, you know, afterward – someone missing a class didn't seem real important."

"No. I bet not."

"I hope he's not drinkin'," Max said. "Even if he manages not to show it, for sure they'll find alcohol in a spot check."

"Spot check?"

"Unannounced searches of people's property for contraband. Same principle."

Dean took a breath. "Nothing to hide, nothing to fear."

"Exactly."

After a moment, Dean grinned mischievously. "Maybe he's gettin' some. It seemed to me like him and Gloria were kinda cozy at dinner last night."

Max shifted in his chair, his expression even more than normally uncomfortable. "Y'know, I'm really not – and I know you guys are really into it, I've got no problem with that – but I'm not interested in talking about peoples' personal lives."

"Oh," Dean said. "Yeah, sorry. Didn't mean to be so – gay."

Max stood. "I'm gonna get more water before we drag those mowers uphill."

"Me too," Dean said, and they headed behind the platform, pulling the banner back out to its full length.

.

Nick's body was released on Monday. How many of the Council members knew why it was specifically released to Betsy, Jess didn't know. The Council, having made plans previously, accompanied the body to the crematory and waited to receive the ashes, which were placed in a white urn they'd purchased. Nick's Lifeblood pendant was placed around the neck of the urn, and Clark put the urn in Nick's locked office, to await the formal memorial service.

.

That night, Clark was by himself in the dining room, working on a laptop computer, when Jess tapped on the archway that led into the room. "Am I bothering you?"

Clark looked up, smiled, and sat back a bit. "Not at all, Jess. Have a seat."

She sat facing him. "I don't want to interrupt if you're working."

"I'm just finishing an email to some followers in Missouri." Clark gave a glance over his finished message, sent it, and pushed the laptop slightly away from him, closing it carefully. "They wanted to know if, with the Messenger gone, they could decide for themselves if books that have come out since his last message are Corrupted Literature or Worthy Literature." He shook his head. "I told them that either the Council or further revelation would decide such matters, and until then, if they've completely read through all Worthy Literature, the Messenger's works are always worth re-reading."

Jess nodded.

"So the bakery's all closed up for the night?"

"All shut up tight."

"You know, we really should rearrange your and Betsy's schedules. It hardly seems fair that you get up at four to open and then go back there late afternoon to close, and Betsy only has to work late mornings and afternoons."

"I don't mind. I have my own way of getting the kitchen ready for next morning."

"Well. I know better than to tell a woman how she should do things in her kitchen."

She laughed, and Clark continued, "The bakery is especially important to us now. There's been a noticeable drop-off in contributions since – over the last week. I'm sure we'll be fine in the long run, but for the time being, the bakery's income is especially important to us. I appreciate the way you've soldiered on."

"Thank you. We all have."

He pushed the laptop to one side and leaned his elbows on the table. "I'm not good at dealing with uncertainty, Jess."

"Who is?"

"The move is suspended until the Sheriff's office isn't politely requesting our presence, our executive decision-making waits for a revelation, and we still don't know who killed the most powerful spiritual leader in centuries." He shook his head. "I'm afraid that my tension indicates – not a lack of faith, but less faith than I should have."

"But that's just human. Acceptance of God's will is hard for human beings. All we can do is work toward perfecting our acceptance."

"Perfection saves," he said with a smile.

"Have you given any more thought to what Casey says?"

"I have, Jess. And I admit, it makes a certain – worldly sense. Just assume that humans are to name the leader of a spiritual movement, although the leader was originally named by God. Elect a new leader and move on. I know she means well. But with every fiber of my being, I know we should wait for a revelation. Somehow, I know, God will tell us what to do next."

"Well – if your conviction is that strong, you have to act on it."

"Thank you."

Jess took a breath. "Could I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"This will sound silly, so please forgive that. But what happened today – moved me. I've been feeling a real, personal, grief, longing for – not just the Messenger, but Nick. I know I'm the Bride he chose most recently, but he did – choose me, and – Well. I was wondering if I could be alone in the office with Nick's urn for a while. I know those ashes aren't his spirit, but I can't help but feel that I could, could commune with him there, in his surroundings, with, with what remains of his physical being."

Clark folded his hands, interlacing his fingers, looking at the tabletop for several seconds.

Then he looked back at her. "I don't think so, Jess. Nick's office was very private to him, no one was ever in there without him. Even I only go in there to get whatever documents I need, and then I work on them anywhere I can find space. It may be – when there's a new leader, that person may feel more liberal about allowing others into the office without him. But right now, I'm inclined to treat the office with Nick's rules."

"I understand," Jess said, "but – "

"And needing to be around a physical object to commune with the Messenger – there's a hint of idolatry there, don't you think?"

Jess lowered her head a little.

"And you're a deeply spiritual woman, Jess. There's a reason why Nick selected you as his Bride when you'd only been with us for three months. I have no doubt that you're capable of communing with the Messenger's spirit without – props of any kind."

"Thank you," Jess said quietly.

He shrugged a little. "It's simply the truth."

"How long had Casey been with Lifeblood when Nick chose her?"

"I don't know. That was before my time. In fact, Casey was the one who brought me into Lifeblood, and she was already Nick's Bride at the time."

Jess smiled. "Did you go to a meeting?"

"Much more prosaic than that. Which shows that we should always search for spiritual possibility even in prosaic duties, I suppose. I had just left a large law firm, very successful. I was working 60-hour weeks and earning more money than I'd have thought possible, and all I knew was that I felt dead inside. So I struck out on my own to save the world as a solo practitioner."

He chuckled, and Jess did too.

"Well, let's just say that the world didn't seem to feel that it needed saving. I was willing to do anything from estate planning to traffic tickets, but I found myself in almost the same situation as I had before – focused on money, morning, noon, and night. About that time, the IRS did a review of Lifeblood's tax-exempt status. Apparently there had been a falling-out with the accountant who'd originally helped them establish it, and Casey – ever the pragmatist – convinced Nick to hire an actual lawyer to help this time around. Then she found an inexpensive one." He smiled ruefully.

Jess was resting her chin on her palm like a little girl listening to an exciting story. "And she told you about Lifeblood doctrines – "

"A little. But it was meeting Nick that made me realize I'd been – going about my life all wrong, hoping to feel spiritually at peace through my work, when I should have been placing my spiritual life first and allowing my work to come to me through that. Nick was – "

He stopped and swallowed.

"He was unique, in the precise sense of the word. To this day, it surprises me. One meeting – one hour! – and my life was changed forever."

He looked into Jess' eyes. "How can we just – hold an election, to replace someone like that?"

Jess put her hand down. "I don't think that even Casey thinks we can replace him. But I understand what you're saying."

She stood, and he smiled at her. "I'm going to go – someplace quiet," she said.

He nodded.

She paused in the doorway. "Do you know, did they ever find Nick's phone?"

"No." He laughed, and she gave him a puzzled look. "Sue-Ann called the Sheriff's office to find out if it had been found and taken as evidence. They weren't inclined to tell her, and apparently one of the detectives asked why we didn't just run out and buy four or five – "

Jess laughed as if she knew what was coming.

"And after Sue-Ann had been explaining our doctrines to him in some detail and with – great emphasis, for several minutes, apparently he told her just to gain some peace. And he told her no."

"We probably should get some more."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "It's a slippery slope to the object-centered life, Jessica."

After a moment, she nodded and left.

.

Having finally located a parking space, Sam walked a couple of blocks through the old buildings of the Westport district in Kansas City, Missouri. The exteriors were run down but had pretty architectural details, the interiors were probably in their eighth or tenth incarnations – theatres, thrift shops, small offices. Finally, he found the one he was looking for. Huge, bright blue letters, outlined in white, were painted on the window. "CER," and underneath, in smaller lettering, "You're safe here." The same two lines were repeated on the glass door. White venetian blinds blocked any view inside the office.

Sam raised his eyebrows, then pushed the door. It opened and he looked, then walked, in.

There was a desk with a desktop computer and a couple of exploding in-boxes, but no one sitting there. A set of bookshelves offered for sale numerous books about religions generally and cults specifically. Anti-cult fliers lay on a long table. A poster on the wall showed a happy family smiling at each other, under the legend, "Cult Education and Resistance – We Protect Families." Another gave a checklist of ways to determine whether a group was a cult. Someone had taped a scary-looking photo of Jim Jones on the wall over the desk, and had printed underneath, "FIRST they poison your MIND."

A modular wall divided the front office from the back, and behind the wall Sam could hear rapid-fire keyboard typing. He called "Hello?," received no response, and went back behind the wall.

A chubby, graying guy with glasses and earbuds in both ears glanced up just as Sam walked in, made a short sharp sound, then yanked the earbuds out with one pull of the cord. "Who are you?"

"Hi. Sorry to startle you. My name's Sam. I was wondering if I could ask a couple of questions about CER."

Looking a little hassled, the guy pushed back from his desk and looked around at the chairs in the back part of the office, all of which were piled with publications. "Yeah, sure. Kubrick's supposed to be out front. Have a seat," and he dumped a stack of magazines on the floor.

"Thanks," Sam said, sitting at an angle that gave him a view of the door to the front office. "I'll make it quick. A friend of mine just moved in with – Well, he calls it a spiritual movement, but I'm thinking it might be a cult, and I'm worried about him."

The guy nodded. "What's the name of it?"

"Lifeblood."

The guy snorted. "Oh, yeah. It's a cult."

"You know about them?"

Actually, Sam knew very well that the founders of CER were ex-Lifeblood. It had occurred to him, he'd told Dean over the weekend, that former members might know enough about the bakery and the layout of Heartland to kill Nick, and in a hasty call to the cell phone Dean had smuggled in, he'd asked if Jess might know of any disgruntled ex-members. Dean had called back this morning from work with Jess' answer: While a few members had left in the months she'd been there, the only two she knew of who were overtly resentful of Lifeblood had left before she'd arrived, founding members of Lifeblood who had established a vocal anti-cult group in Kansas City. Sam was only skipping one afternoon class to be here.

"Classic setup," the hefty guy said. "Charismatic guy claiming to be divine, suck-up control freaks under him, deluded suckers under them. You said your friend moved in with them? Does he still have a job?"

"Yes."

"Well, he just agreed to 'tithe'" – the guy gave the word air quotes – "eighty percent of his after-tax income to Lifeblood in exchange for room, board, and spiritual fulfillment classes."

"Are you joking?" This had actually been Sam's reaction when Dean had told him that little detail. Dean had told Casey that he didn't get a paycheck until the end of the month and would pay Lifeblood then.

The guy at the desk waved a hand. "Peanuts, compared to some groups. But the whole thing is trending badly. You're not allowed to have a cell phone or a car – too materialistic. Two cell phones, two cars in the whole place, both firmly in control of the top dogs, so if you're wanting to reach the outside world, you either depend on them or walk for miles. You're working for the cult almost non-stop until nine at night, and then, when you're good and tired and your resistance is low, you have indoctrination classes. And now they've bought property in another state way outside of any city limits." The guy shook his head. "Yeah, you should be worried for your friend."

"You know a lot about them."

"I should. We helped found Lifeblood, Jamie Kubrick and me. Jamie's a seriously spiritual guy, thought he'd found the real deal when he met Nick Munroe. Me – well – I'm willing to admit that there might be a God, but mostly I think people need to reform their habits, and that was Nick's major point – spirituality through austerity. We were on the first Board of Directors, Nick and Nick's wife and Kubrick and me. I found 'em a big place just outside Lawrence. I said we should live completely off the grid, no county sewer system, just have our own power supply and our own water system, but I guess only so many people are willing to live like that."

"I guess. But didn't that Nick guy just get killed? Does that mean the whole thing will fall apart now?"

The guy looked at Sam over the top of his glasses. "Maybe. Never underestimate the desire of some people to be told what to do. And as long as there are people like that around, there'll be people willing to tell them what to do."

"Who will be the new leader?"

The guy shrugged. "The hierarchy has changed a lot since I was there. I finally had enough when this brunette bimbo joined the group and started making a move on Nick. Next thing you know, he's so divine that the rules that apply to the rest of us don't apply to him, and he's taking the bimbo as a theoretical 'bride.' With his actual wife sitting right there. Overnight, Miss Greatbody's ordering everyone else around, claiming some kind of high status as a Bride of the Messenger, and Nick's just grinning and nodding. That was enough for me. Kubrick hung in there awhile more, he really wanted to believe, but he gave up when Nick started referring to his own book as 'Post-Revelations.' You know, like the epilogue to the Bible."

"Kubrick must've wanted to punch him out."

"Nah. I wanted to, eventually. But you have to understand how cults work. I have my own life – freelance computer repair and systems consulting." He pulled open a drawer, took out a business card, and flipped it over to Sam's side of the desk. "So you'd think that leaving Lifeblood wouldn't have had any particular effect on me. Wrong. I felt like I'd slammed into a wall, sitting around stunned without much motivation to do anything. Started researching the effects of cults, then I set up a website, and with the feedback I was getting, I started giving speeches. Rotary Clubs, places like that. I was in Lawrence to give a speech one day and saw Kubrick standing on a street corner panhandling. That was the effect that leaving Lifeblood had on him. I gave him a meal and talked to him, and we wound up founding CER."

Sam picked up the business card, which read, "Frank, Systems Consulting," and a phone number. Nothing else.

"The reason I tell you this is so you'll be prepared for his reaction if your friend leaves Lifeblood. But don't join it yourself thinking you'll talk him out of it. They'll suck you right in."

"I'm surprised no one killed him long since."

"Who, Nick? Why would you say that?"

"Just – he sounds like a bastard who used people."

"Oh, yeah. He was."

"I mean," Sam persisted, pocketing Frank's card, "even I was kind of happy when I heard the news. What was Kubrick's reaction? I mean, were you two hanging out together when it happened?"

There was a moment of complete silence.

Then a voice behind Sam said, "He's Lifeblood."

Of course there was a back door. Sam jumped and spun in his chair, looking up into a stark pale face topped with thick short blond hair. Obviously this was Kubrick; he wore a large crucifix over his old worn T-shirt, and his eyes had the sad, concentrating gaze of the fanatic.

"Mm – I think undercover cop," Frank said. "What happened? Didn't we incriminate ourselves enough for you when you came around last week?"

"I'm not – "

"No, he's Lifeblood," Kubrick said almost eagerly. "Look how young he is. And clean-cut. I bet he's great at luring in college girls."

"I'm not a cop and I'm not in Lifeblood. I came here because I was worried about my friend."

"Really?" Frank said. "'Cause you seem a lot more interested in Nick Munroe's murder than in your good buddy. Asking where we were when he was killed."

"They're trying to figure out if one of us doesn't have an alibi. They're gonna frame one of us for the murder."

"No, I am not!" Sam started to rise. "Forget – "

Kubrick shoved down on Sam's shoulder, pushing him back into the chair. "No, you came here, now you can answer questions. Who's trying to set us up?"

Sam tried to stand again and was shoved back down again. He set his jaw. "Buddy, if you do that one more time – "

"What? I get a knife in the gut? I get framed for murder?"

"I knew you'd come after us sometime," Frank said.

"Really?" Sam snapped. "'Cause frankly, I doubt if you're that important to anyone."

He tried to stand. Kubrick pushed down on both of his shoulders with both hands. Sam raised his arms between Kubrick's and struck sharply outward, breaking Kubrick's grip on his right shoulder. Sam jumped to his feet and the chair toppled as Kubrick grabbed Sam's left sleeve and hit him in the gut.

Sam doubled over, then lunged and head-butted Kubrick in the solar plexus. Kubrick bent, but wrapped an arm around Sam's neck. With a blind but well-estimated upward strike, Sam smashed his fist into Kubrick's nose. Kubrick grabbed his nose and Sam wrenched free, turning for the door.

And was turned right back again, Kubrick grabbing and spinning him, slamming him back against a wall. Sam doubled his fists and then saw a flash at his eye – a knife in Kubrick's hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam went still, raising his hands slowly and opening them. "OK," he said as calmly as you can speak while panting. "OK. OK."

"Not worth it, Jamie." Frank was standing. "It's not worth it."

Slowly, Kubrick lowered the knife, released Sam and took a step back.

Sam focused his gaze on Kubrick's face. "You like knives. Been to any bakeries lately?"

There was no mistaking the complete blankness in Kubrick's eyes. He shot a glance over at Frank and, seeing equal blankness on Frank's face, looked back at Sam as if Sam were a babbling dangerous lunatic.

Sam straightened his jacket and edged toward the front office, keeping his gaze on Kubrick's knife.

"Don't bother reporting this," Frank said. "You know, as far as we're concerned, you came in here and attacked Jamie and he had to defend himself."

"Two against one," Kubrick said.

Sam let them have the last word. He was too busy moving briskly out of the office and down the sidewalk.

.

"So I learned two things. At least, I think so." Sam was in one of the two tiny bedrooms that, along with a larger common room, made up his and three others' suite at Schuyler. He was on his cell phone, reclining on the loft bed suspended over his small study desk, and had closed the door to the common room. "First, I don't think the CER guys are involved. Frank was hardly even interested in Munroe getting killed. He thinks the whole movement is the threat, and he thinks it's going to go on being threatening even with the Messenger gone. And Kubrick, he just seemed really baffled when I asked him about knives and bakeries. Which makes sense. Lifeblood didn't open the bakery until months after Kubrick and Frank started up the CER website. So there's no reason Kubrick would go there to get a weapon."

Dean was standing on the open ground by the garden, a flashlight in one hand and his phone in the other, watching Jess' flashlight bob down the slope in the darkness. His voice was tense. "Nice work, Sam, thanks. You're off the case."

"I'm 'off' the 'case'?"

"You damn near got stabbed, Sam, and if you think – "

"I didn't say he threatened to stab me, I said he had a knife with him – "

"Yeah, I know how you downplay things. You saying there was a knife in the general vicinity probably means he had it at your eye."

Sam was silent, but it was a good thing Dean couldn't see his face.

"So, no more. I'll keep you posted, and if we need anything that can be found on the Internet – "

"Dean, how are you gonna stop me? You're out in the country with no car. And anyway, I'm seeing Al Moore tomorrow. No one's going to be wielding knives in an accounting firm in Overland Park."

"How many classes are you missing for this?"

"Dad? Is that you?"

Dean signed. "OK. What was the second thing you learned?"

"Oh. I'm not real good at getting information out of people with subtle questions."

"Well, I'm in luck there," Dean said. "I found out Sunday that I can barge around asking questions with no subtlety at all, because everyone knows all gay men are gossipy."

Sam laughed. "Well, that's handy. Embrace the stereotype, Dean."

Jess gave a wave as she neared. "Gotta go. Don't get yourself friggin' killed."

"Dean, you're the one in a cult with a murderer. Don't you get killed." And Sam disconnected before Dean could retort.

"Sorry I'm late," Jess said. "I was painting plates with Betsy, and she couldn't stop talking about Nick. It seems to make her feel better."

"Did you get any information?"

"Clark was there with her when the murder happened."

"He was? I thought the dishes were a surprise project."

"It was supposed to be. Apparently he was in one of the storage rooms in the trailer looking for something and saw her stenciling. She blurted it out, she thinks. She doesn't remember much from that night. She just remembers that she and Clark had been talking for a while when they heard me scream."

Pocketing his cell phone, Dean asked, "Did you think of an acceptable reason for us being out here talking?"

"You miss Cas a lot. You need counseling for it but you didn't want to talk where anyone else might hear us, because you don't want to seem weak."

"That's good." Dean looked around. "And we can see anyone coming from any direction. So if anyone comes down to spy on us, we can change the subject before they hear what we're saying. Hey, by the way," with some indignation, "thanks so much for telling me about the spot checks!"

Jess looked blank, then guilty. "I'm sorry, Dean. It's been so long since I had any contraband, I forgot about them."

"And probably Brides don't get their stuff searched anyway."

"Well – actually, no, Nick probably wouldn't have wanted anyone else to know if one of us had contraband, but he would have been justified in searching our belongings himself."

"'Justified'?"

Dean turned his back and walked away a couple of steps.

"Dean, let's not – "

"No. I mean, I'm sorry, I know we've been kind of agreeing to disagree, but I can't begin to understand this, Jess. If you moved back in with your parents and they said you could live with them as long as they dictate every minute of your life and had the right to search your property whenever they wanted, how long would you put up with that crap?"

"It's different."

"How? How is it different? I'm really trying to understand. I get that you loved Nick, but you loved Sam too – I think you did – and you would never have put up with that crap from him either."

Silence except for a cool wind whistling a little across the farmland. It was so dark that Dean couldn't see the expression on Jess' face well.

"I did love Sam." Jess' voice was shaking, just slightly. "I still do. Breaking up with him was the hardest thing I ever did. But he wouldn't come to Heartland with me. I couldn't even get him to attend more than a couple of meetings. He forced me to make the choice."

"Between him and – "

"And a place where I feel like I belong. Between him and a group where I thought I was doing God's work. Between him and God."

If Dean noticed the past tense in "I thought I was doing God's work," he showed no signs of it. He simply said, "Well. OK. I think I kind of understand."

"Anyway – obviously, no one found your phone in a spot check."

"No. I'm just gonna have to be more devious. Do they do personal checks, turn out your pockets?"

"No. At least, we never have."

"So I'll just keep it on me all the time and figure out where to stash it when I'm in the shower."

"If all else fails," Jess suggested, "I'll tell them I asked you to get me one."

"Because after you needed one that night and didn't have one – "

"Exactly. So. Did you get any alibis?"

"I thought I'd confirmed with Max that all the Accepters and the Probationer were in that class, and then he casually told me that Dirk wasn't there."

"He wasn't?"

"No, so now I'm not sure of anyone. I can't very well say to Max, 'Dammit, give me a definite alibi for these people or don't!'"

"Well," there was a smile in Jess' voice, "Eve confirmed that Max was there – he fell asleep during the chanting and made a funny sound when Rosco nudged him awake. So that puts Rosco there too. And Rosco confirms that Eve was there. I talked to him about how Eve's been doing in classes generally, then that class specifically. I know if she'd been gone that night he'd have mentioned it – she aggravates him. He thinks she's a princess who doesn't belong here."

"OK," Dean said, shifting his weight and looking around a little, "let's go through one by one and see if we can cross anyone off of a suspect list definitely. Betsy."

"In the trailer with Clark, according to her. I'll see if I can confirm that with Clark."

"Casey."

"Teaching the reinforcement class, except for a few minutes where she went to the house to use the restroom."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"She was only gone for four minutes. I don't see how that would be enough time to run to the meeting house, kill Nick, get herself cleaned up, and run back."

"We know four minutes – how?"

Jess chuckled. "From Eve. She was ticked off that Casey got to leave when the rest of them had to sit there staring at a spot on the board and chanting. So she counted how many times they had to do the chant while Casey was gone. It was 53 times. Well, it was the 'Lifeblood is soul' chant – do you know that one yet?"

"Oh yeah."

"I tried it last night. Saying it out loud at the speed we usually say it, it comes out every time to 12 or 13 times a minute. If they said it 53 times while Casey was gone – "

"Four, four and a half minutes, maybe. If Eve counted right."

"She seemed pretty sure of that. 'Fifty-three times! We sat there saying the same thing fifty-three times while she gets to take a break!'"

Dean laughed. "What is she doing here, anyway?"

"Well, she likes Lifeblood principles. She's been financially generous, I think her family has money. I just don't think she understands how important it is to move through the stages – accepting a lack of material goods, accepting hard work, accepting repetition of the basics."

"Maybe," Dean interrupted suddenly, "maybe she thought she should move up real fast. Like being a Bride of the Messenger?"

"Oh," Jess said, startled. "Well, but – I mean, even besides the lack of spiritual maturity, she's just kind of immature generally. I'm sure Nick wouldn't have – "

"Exactly."

"Oh," Jess said again.

"And at the moment we only think she was in the class because Rosco didn't say she wasn't there. I think we need to get positive confirmation that she was there, the whole time."

"I'll see if I can get that. Without sounding like I'm interrogating anyone."

"OK," Dean said. "Clark was in the trailer with Betsy, according to Betsy. Sue-Ann – "

"She was doing an inventory of the library and getting started on boxing up books for the move," Jess said.

"So no alibi."

"No."

"Hm. OK. Max was in the reinforcement class, according to both Eve and Rosco. We don't know where Dirk was. I saw him the night that I moved in, about 9:15, walking past the meeting hall down toward the gardens and the barn. Any idea what he might have been doing?"

"No."

"I'll keep an eye on him, see if I can figure it out."

"Gloria – we're pretty sure she was in the class but we need confirmation. Rosco, ditto. And – that's it. Great. I thought we were getting more information."

"I think we're doing pretty well," Dean said, "all things considered. Hey, did you find out about that Probationer?"

"Gary, yes. I don't think it's suspicious that he left right after the Messenger was killed. His dad found Nick at the Festival that day and told him that Gary's sister had been in a car crash and they wanted Gary to come see her in the hospital. Nick gave him a dispensation until ten o'clock that night, but he stayed late at the hospital and spent the night with his parents in a hotel. Casey told me all this, by the way. Nick had discussed the dispensation with her and then Gary talked to her when he moved out. His family's going to need help with his sister for awhile, and, with the Messenger no longer with us, he decided to go. He hadn't been at Heartland very long."

"Right. I don't think the guy left his badly injured sister's bedside to come down here and murder Munroe for no discernible reason. So. I'm assuming Clark wouldn't let you in the office, or you'd have found a way to tell me that last night."

"Nick valued the privacy of the place too much even to let one of his Brides in. I suppose it's good that Clark's a stickler, but it can be annoying sometimes. I really think it could help us."

"Even after a police search?"

"There's something specific I'm thinking of. But if we can't get in . . ."

"Could we break in?"

"I don't think so," Jess said. "It's a solid deadbolt lock. Unless you know how to pick a lock?"

"Sorry. My education's been neglected. What's the matter?"

She took her hand off of her face. "I just realized I'm talking about breaking into the office of the leader of my religion."

"Hang in there, Jess. I need your support in this place."

"You have it. I started this, I'll see it through."

"Till Saturday. If we haven't found anything by then, I'll move out, and – "

" – and I'll tell the Sheriff's office about the knife. I remember the deal."

"Just didn't want you to get too dependent on my awesomeness."

She smiled wanly, the expression barely visible in the darkness.

"Speaking of locks, who has a key to the meeting hall?"

"Most of us, I imagine. We don't keep anything that the Misled would value in there, and everyone's had an assignment to clean or do maintenance or set up in there one time or another. We're actually much choosier about handing out keys to the house. You won't get one until – Well, you'd get one if you were going to become an Accepter."

"It hasn't really been a problem. The doors are mostly unlocked during the daytime."

"That's the way it's usually been. We got really conscious about keeping the doors locked for a few days after Nick was killed, but with so many people coming and going, that's kind of fallen off."

"Well, I really appreciate your support, Jess," Dean said. "I was just starting to feel like I wasn't worthy of being at Heartland."

Jess blinked, then followed Dean's gaze over her shoulder to where Rosco was approaching.

"Hey, you two!" Rosco said heartily. "Is it a party? Where's the confetti?"

"It's counseling," Jess said, and Dean almost jumped at the snap of authority in her usually girlish voice. "And you don't need to be checking up on me, Rosco."

"Not checking up. Just saw people talking down here and I was curious. You know, if you're doing counseling, you could take any space you wanted in the house."

Just then, the Night Bell – a recording of a tolling bell played over the P.A. system – "rang."

"We're finished anyway," Jess said over the sound. "Dean, let me know if I can be of further help."

"You two go on up," Dean said. "I just want to be outdoors by myself for awhile."

Rosco shot Dean a look of mixed incredulity and anger. Jess said calmly, "I'll grant you a fifteen-minute dispensation for that, but be sure you're back inside by then."

Dean nodded. "Sure."

He watched them walk away, the hem of Jess' skirt fluttering in the wind.

When they started up the slope to the house, he pulled out his cell phone, punched a number, and listened.

Then he said, "Hey, Cas, it's me. Thought I'd check in. We keep playing phone tag. I'm missing you, a lot. So – don't know what you're doing, but, uh, give me a call back. You know I have to leave my phone off, but I don't mind getting messages. Just like to hear your voice." He paused. "Love you. 'Bye."

He disconnected, turned the phone off, stuck his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket, and began trudging toward the house.

.

Overland Park is a placid suburb that, through hard-nosed planning, became the second most populous city in Kansas. A huge office park called Corporate Woods was the incarnation of both sides of the city's history: Acres of lush grass and thousands of mature deciduous and pine trees hiding more than two dozen office buildings of three to sixteen stories each.

Al Moore's office was in one of the smaller buildings. When he came back from lunch the next day, two people were in the lobby of the independent accounting firm for which he worked: the secretary at her reception desk, and Sam, sitting cross-legged in a vinyl chair, reading "The Damnation of Theron Ware."

"Oh," Moore said. "Sam. Is Jessica – "

"Fine as far as I know," Sam said cheerfully. "I just wanted to drop by and see you."

Moore looked at him for a moment, then at the secretary. "Any messages?"

"Couple of voicemails."

He nodded, then looked at Sam. "Come on back."

They passed three other offices and a break room before entering Al's office, which was spacious enough for his desk and credenza, two comfortable client chairs, a filing cabinet, and two crowded sets of bookshelves. Diplomas and a couple of framed professional awards hung on the walls by the bookshelves; behind Al, where clients could see it, hung a peaceful framed print of a seascape.

"Before I forget," Al said, seating himself and waving Sam to a client chair, "I wanted to thank your brother for getting Jessica to call Carla a couple of weeks ago. It meant a lot to her, and I really appreciate that."

"I'll tell Dean," Sam said. "The reason why I'm here – "

"You've heard from Jessica?"

"Not, well, lately. She did get in touch briefly, about Nick Munroe's murder."

Moore swallowed, his jaw tight. "Wouldn't you think that would be enough to make her leave? On top of everything else, people are being killed there?"

"She thinks," Sam said carefully, "she just might have a line on who did it."

Moore stared at him. "Then she needs to call the police."

"Yeah. She knows she should, but something's holding her up. See, she feels like if she calls the police, it will bring all kinds of police attention down on Lifeblood members. I mean, of course they have that anyway, but real focused specific attention on certain members and their families. And she told me that, the morning she talked to Mrs. Moore, you weren't home."

Al looked a little puzzled.

Sam added hastily, "I didn't, by the way, I didn't tell her why you were in Lawrence that Friday night. But of course you were planning to be in Lawrence on Saturday and Sunday too. And obviously the deprogramming thing didn't happen. But if the deprogrammers were with you on Saturday night around nine, when Munroe was killed, I could tell her you have an alibi. Obviously I wouldn't tell her who you were with. But I could tell her you had an alibi, no questions asked, and she might feel more – comfortable about telling the police what she's thinking."

Al's small smile had a slightly bitter look. "She's worried about me? Well, that's – a reversal."

He looked at Sam as if deciding whether he'd say anything else, then drew a breath. "Unfortunately, I wasn't with anyone at that time on Saturday. We waited in a van by the park where that fair was, from the time it opened until it closed, on Saturday. I spent hours either in the van or on a bench in the park pretending to read the newspaper. And the whole time, I was wondering."

For a moment, it seemed that the sentence would end there.

Then Al took another breath. "I kept wondering – Could I do this to my little girl? Even if it got her away from that cult, even if it was best in the long run, could I really watch while people grabbed her and dragged her into a van, kept her from screaming, could I – How did I turn into a man who uses physical force on his child?

"By afternoon, I literally didn't know if I wanted them to spot Jessica or not. Finally I decided, if we don't see her by the time the park's empty, I'm calling it off. And we didn't. So I thanked them and paid them, sent them on their way."

Al's gaze was far away. As though reluctant to interrupt his thoughts, Sam spoke very quietly. "Do you remember, about what time – "

"About seven. I went back to the hotel to have dinner before the trip back home, and – "

He was lost in thought for a moment.

Then he looked directly at Sam. "You might understand this some day. I was having a drink at the bar, and it suddenly struck me: No one there knew who I was. No one there knew – I've been married 24 years, I'm an accountant, my failures as a father, or any other failures, for that matter. There was a lady sitting by herself at the bar, and we got to talking – "

He smiled a little at Sam's expression. "And now you're thinking I have an alibi I just don't want to tell anyone, but – no. She was just a nice woman waiting for some program to start at eight o'clock. We had a talk about superficial things. I made a couple of jokes, for the first time in a while. She laughed at them. It was just –

"After she left, I went on up to the room and ordered room service. I sat up there, looking out the window. I could see where the lights of town faded out and there was just – open darkness, out there, and I started thinking, if I just drove west tomorrow, where would I be at the end of the day? The day after that? Would I rather end up in Colorado or California?"

His gaze was far distant again, and his lips were only slightly curved. Sam let out a breath, carefully.

Al brought himself back to the present. "And the next day I checked out and went back to Carla. I got home just about a half-hour after she'd talked to Jessica. She was rattled – partly worried about me, partly ecstatic about talking to Jessica – so I was glad I got back when I did."

Sam cleared his throat. "Didn't she know where you were?"

"She did. But we fought about the deprogramming. I didn't call her that night, and she didn't try to call me. It was the first night in our marriage that we hadn't talked. So, no, Sam, I don't even have a phone-call alibi."

Sam nodded.

"And even so, if Jessica knows anything, she needs to call the police. You know that. Tell her that, if she calls you again." He gave a one-syllable laugh. "She doesn't need to worry. I don't think I'm a very likely murder suspect."

"OK. Well." Sam stood. "I'll get out of your hair."

Al nodded and picked up his phone.

"I don't think – " Sam began, then re-started. "You shouldn't feel like – I don't think this is your failure. As a father. Jess is an adult. She made a choice. And none of us would've made it for her, but it's the choice she made. I mean, I'm not a dad, so I don't know what it feels like, but I just don't think you should be talking about your failures as a father. For what it's worth."

Al gave him a slightly melancholy smile. "Thank you, Sam."

"Anyway. Have a good afternoon."

When he was back in his car, Sam got on the phone.

"Me. Mr. Moore doesn't have an alibi for that night. He sent the deprogrammers home and stayed in the hotel all night. He and Mrs. Moore had a fight about the deprogramming before he left, so they didn't even call each other. And he spent all that day near the park where the festival was, which is like three blocks from the bakery. I mean, I don't see how he'd sneak into the bakery to steal a knife without being seen – or why, for that matter. But if the Sheriff's office puts all that together it could get hairy. And for sure the reason he was in Lawrence would come out, and I don't know how we could keep the deprogramming thing a secret from Jess anymore. So. You guys are going to try to re-create the murder tonight, right? Hope you can figure out something. Hey, I'm gonna have time to get to American Lit, so be happy. Talk to you later."

He disconnected, fastened his seatbelt, and started the car.

.

Notebook and pencil in hand, Jess approached Gloria, who was vacuuming the formal living room. The closest other person in the house at that moment was Max, who was at the far end of the library-tech room working on something. He was obviously too absorbed to be listening in on a conversation more than 30 feet away, but Jess cast a careful look around before she tapped Gloria's shoulder.

Gloria turned the vacuum off. "Hey, Jess."

"Hi, Gloria. I'm not sure how carefully Casey's been keeping track of Accepter class attendance, so I wanted to do a little spot-checking of her records. Were you in class last night?"

"Yes."

"And the others – Dirk, Eve, Max, Rosco – were they all there?"

"Uh-huh."

Jess made a note in the notebook. "How about night before last?"

"Night before last." Gloria smiled a little. "They kinda tend to run together. I think Max had a dispensation to work on the website, but everyone else was there."

As Jess made another note, she said, "They do run together, I remember from when I was taking classes. Oh. Well. Everyone remembers where they were the night, you know, the night that the Messenger was taken from us. Casey had a special reinforcement class that night, didn't she?"

"Yeah, I was in that. That kid, the Probationer – Gary, that was his name, he was out because his sister was in a car crash."

"And other than that?"

"Yeah, everyone."

"Eve, Max, Rosco?"

Gloria looked at her suspiciously. "Yeah."

"Dirk?"

Gloria turned away sharply. "Well, obviously you know he wasn't there, so I don't know why you're asking me."

"Gloria." Jess' tone was gentle and friendly. "I'm not trying to get him in trouble. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. Here, sit down."

Jess sat on the elegant blue sofa in a pool of late afternoon sun filtering through translucent drapes, and Gloria sat beside her. "Do you know why he skipped class that night?"

"Not really. But he worked really hard on assembling stuff for the Festival that day, and he was running errands all afternoon. He was so tired at dinner. I think he deserved an extra hour's sleep. And I don't think it means I'm Misled if I say that."

Jess smiled. "I don't think so either. So, is he ever going to break down and ask permission to court you?"

Gloria looked down. "He already did. The Messenger said no."

Jess was silent for a moment.

Then, "Did he say why?"

"He just said we weren't meant to be lifelong partners. And he knew – Well, God knew – what was best for each of us. He said that when the right person came along for us, he'd know it and we'd know it."

Another silence from Jess.

"I mean, we can still be friends, talk to each other and all, we just can't – you know – get romantic."

"Yes. I know."

"Dirk said he was going to keep trying until the Messenger said yes. Which was great, but I didn't want him to risk punishment on my account. And since – then – You know, Dirk's been so withdrawn, anyway. And we both feel like, if we went ahead and started a relationship now, it'd be like taking advantage of the Messenger of God being murdered. Like dancing on his grave. No good could come of that."

"Maybe I could bring it up with the Council."

A beaming smile, very unusual for her, broke across Gloria's face. "Would you? That would be – I mean, I don't want to go against God's will."

Jess cleared her throat a little. "It could be that the Messenger was just testing Dirk, to see if his faith was strong enough. Maybe he was planning to say yes once Dirk passed the test."

"Maybe. Maybe that was it." Gloria was smiling more broadly, although it didn't seem possible. "That makes sense. I mean, if you were really in love with someone and God told you he wasn't right for you, that would be, like, the ultimate test of faith, wouldn't it?"

"It was."

Astonishment dashed Gloria's smile. "That's right, I forgot. There was that Misled guy. I didn't realize you were that serious about him."

Jess nodded.

"Did you – How long was it, before you stopped feeling like you missed him?"

Jess was silent, and realization filled Gloria's eyes.

"Well." Jess stood. "Thanks for your time, Gloria. I'll see what I can do."

Gloria stood too, her expression sympathetic. She touched Jess' shoulder, the scars on her wrists briefly visible. "It'll be OK. It's all part of God's plan."

"I know."

Jess closed her notebook and left abruptly. As though giving her some privacy, Gloria turned her back and started up the vacuum again.

In the hallway, Jess leaned against the wall, wiping tears from her face angrily, and keeping an eye on Max, who never looked up. After a moment, she sucked in a breath and headed for the front door.

But the damn tears wouldn't stop coming. She stood near the door for a long time, wiping her face and taking deep breaths.

Finally she went down the hall and ran up the stairs.

Nick's room was immaculate; Casey had cleaned it after the police search, and it hadn't been touched since. Jess passed through quickly and locked herself in the master bath.

She turned on the bathtub taps full force. The she sat on the toilet lid, leaned her head on the counter and cried. The rushing water covered the sounds of her sobs.

.

The bar at the pricey restaurant was dim – Cas almost tripped walking in – and usually noisy, but today the overhead music was at a low roar. At a curved side table three people looked up as Balthazar and Cas walked toward them. One of the men was wearing a T-shirt celebrating an obscure music group, one a long-sleeved shirt with an open vest, and the woman had on a beautiful glittering sweater.

"There he is!" The guy with the vest waved them over. "We had to defend these chairs with violence."

"Well, I hope you weren't bruised." Balthazar, with his usual slow elegance, sank into one of the two empty chairs at the table and waved at his companion. "Everyone, this is Cas. Cas, this is Barry, Wren, and Xavier."

Xavier – Vest Guy – gave Cas a wave. Wren said, "You're his tutee?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're the one he's tutoring in German?"

"Oh, yes. I'm planning – "

"He's quite brilliant," Balthazar said. "I'm going to get a Sebastiani Chardonnay. Cas, for you?"

"The same. I trust your taste in wine."

Xavier said, "Ho-ho!" mockingly, and Balthazar pointed a finger at him as he rose. "Some people understand good taste. It would do you no harm – "

"Thanks, I'll stick with Manhattans, saves me all that nose wrinkling 'cause I have to sniff – "

"Very funny, yes."

Balthazar departed, and Cas smiled at the other three. "How do you know Balthazar?" he asked.

"Is it possible to live in this town and not know Balthazar?" Barry asked.

"I met him through mutual friends," Wren said. "Balthazar's a big fan of opera."

"Are you studying opera?"

She gave him a wry, slightly sympathetic look. Xavier said, "She's getting her Master's. She just spent the summer with the Santa Fe Opera."

"That's impressive."

"You've heard of it?" Wren asked.

"Of course he has," Xavier said. "You think Balthazar would bring anyone around here who didn't know about Santa Fe?"

"Well, you never know," Wren said. "Kansas." Barry and Xavier chortled.

"Where would you rather study?" Cas asked.

She shrugged. "Actually, I'm wondering about the efficacy of a degree at all."

"I keep telling them that at the lab," Barry said with irony, "and somehow it doesn't make any difference."

"You work at a lab?" Cas inquired.

"I'm doing Ph.D. research on a particular type of protozoan. And yes, Wren, I'm sure he's heard of protozoans."

Wren giggled.

"So you're studying religion?" Barry asked. "Historically, theologically, psychologically?"

"My Master's emphasis is in Ethics. My thesis topic is Dietrich Bonhoeffer, specifically about the effect of his time in America on the development of his later theology."

"Now Bonhoeffer's someone worth studying," Xavier said.

"You've heard of him?" Cas said with delight, then, "Sorry, Wren, I didn't mean to steal your line."

She gave him a pouty moue as Balthazar returned to the table with two glasses of wine. Cas pulled out his wallet and Balthazar waved it away with a pained look as Xavier said, "How horrified do you think Bonhoeffer would be to know that he's the darling of the religious right?"

"Well," Cas said with a small smile, "even the religious right is right twice a day. And Bonhoeffer was actually quite a conservative guy, you know."

"It seems to me like he was dabbling in liberation theology before the Catholics were," Xavier said, and Balthazar added, "Weren't the conservative church figures of the day making nice with the Nazis? Which Bonhoeffer never did?"

"How come everyone knows about this guy but me?" Barry asked plaintively.

"Screwed-up priorities in education," Xavier said.

"Texas textbooks," Wren added crisply.

"How would you go about changing that?" Cas asked Xavier.

"God, where do you start?" Xavier said. "You train teachers with better priorities, but to get teachers with better priorities hired, you need an enlightened school administration. For enlightened school administration, you need an enlightened school board. School boards are elected by American voters, so – "

"Move to Canada," Barry said.

Xavier and Wren laughed. Balthazar touched Cas on the shoulder, lightly. "Try to avoid flippancy, everyone. I promised Cas intelligent conversation."

"With us?" Wren said, and Barry said, "He must be in desperate straits for intelligent conversation."

Balthazar raised his eyebrows high, but said nothing, drinking wine. Barry said, "Where do you come from, Cas?"

"Garden City."

Barry said in a pained tone, "Ooh. Ow," and Wren said, "Hey, maybe he likes it!" and Xavier said, "Where's Garden City?"

"Far west Kansas," Barry said. "Probably very good people, salt of the earth, but in terms of – of cultural advantages – "

"I do enjoy all of the opportunities on campus," Cas said. "Music, museums . . . "

"You and Balthazar have got to see the new art installation at Spencer," Xavier said. "Unless you've seen it already?"

"Does it sound interesting to you, Cas?" Balthazar asked. "It's the one about trash as a reflection of society."

"It actually does."

"Well, you should have someone to go with. Let's go this weekend, shall we?"

"My weekend – may be tied up," Cas said. "But I would like to go."

"Priorities!" Xavier roared. "Art is a priority over studying!"

Cas chuckled. "Well, I'll drink to that," he said, and sipped wine.

.

"The late Nick Munroe," Sue-Ann said sternly, "God save his soul, was a hypocritical pig."

Dean literally dropped books into the banker's box by the library table with a thud. Clearly, that was not the response he'd expected to the comment, "It must be hard, getting ready to move without the Messenger."

Sue-Ann looked over from the laptop computer on the table, a little annoyed at the noise, as Dean cast a quick glance around. "Um – should you – I mean – Can you – "

"I'm not some little Accepter who needs to prove her loyalty to Lifeblood. I've given a lot to this movement, and everyone knows it. I helped to formulate the doctrines. If the Council wants to excommunicate me for speaking the truth, they can do it. But they won't."

Dean sat in the table's other chair. "But – but, if you thought he wasn't what he said – If you – Why didn't you – "

"Oh, I thought he was the Messenger of God. I still do. If he hadn't been, that would have made him only normally sinful. The fact that God spoke to him directly, as He has to so few others in human history, and Nick used that as an excuse to indulge his lust – that made his sin all the worse."

Dean raised his head. "The Brides."

"The harlots, more like. Although, I know Jess is a friend of yours."

"And Casey brought me into Lifeblood. It seems to me like they do good work for the group."

"A lot of people do good work for the group. And they do it without rolling around in the Messenger's bed."

"So, um, did you feel like he should be celibate, or – "

"It wouldn't have killed him," Sue-Ann said icily. "I'm celibate, and somehow I'm still drawing breath. Clark is celibate, and he's the best leader Lifeblood could have. Celibacy allows you to focus your energy on something worthwhile. But I would have been pleased if he'd just remained faithful to his first wife."

"Is that Betsy? She's a little older than the others."

Sue-Ann gave him a look that should have scorched him where he sat. "Why, yes, she's older. I assume that means she's not good enough for a Messenger who was actually two years older than she is."

"No! No, I'm not saying – I just figured, because she was the oldest she was probably first."

"Well. Yes, you're right. And he treated her like – Well, not like trash. In that case he'd have discarded her and she could have started over. He treated her like a useful object to have around, when he needed someone who knew him better than anyone else."

"Why'd she put up with it?"

"She's a loyal wife." Sue-Ann's hard tone gentled a bit. "I think she was hoping that God would send Nick a message about his behavior." She raised an eyebrow, and the hardness returned. "And it looks like He did."

"But she must have loved him. She's been grieving so hard. I don't – She wouldn't consider any kind of therapy, would she? Or, do you think that's – "

"It has its place," Sue-Ann said, and Dean looked a little surprised. "But I doubt it. I can't even get her to take the sleeping pills she got the night that Nick was killed."

"Too bad she insists on suffering like that. She's a sweet woman."

"Too soft. My ex-husband was a minister, and he was like that. 'We must try to understand sinners! We must have compassion! There but for the grace of God go I!' Bushwah. If sinners aren't held accountable, they'll keep repeating their sins. Why should they change?"

"Good point."

"The moment Nick said we were leaving Clark here, I knew it was because Clark's conduct made Nick look bad. Clark is the man that Nick once was, and it must have been like coals of fire to him, God speaking to him and Clark following him, and knowing he was utterly unworthy of both."

"I'm surprised you weren't planning to stay here with Clark."

"I was," Sue-Ann said. "I volunteered to do that the night Nick told us that Clark was staying. He was very touched. That's why we're doing this right now. The day of the Festival, Clark asked me to do an inventory of the library and begin boxing up the books, but if there were any duplications, to keep them. That way we'd have a complete list of what was taken to New Mexico, and we'd have some items to begin rebuilding the library here." She allowed her face a quick smile. "You remind me of him a little, Dean. Going out of your way to help with the inventory when you could be enjoying unscheduled time."

Dean laughed. "Well, if you're gonna be nice about it, I should probably do it." He stood, bent to straighten the dropped books in the box, then went to a partly emptied bookshelf by the wall. "You're still having me leave the duplicates on the shelves. Does that mean Clark's still going to be staying here? Or someone?"

Sue-Ann sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't know, Dean. We haven't been able to make a decision since the Messenger's death. I've been in shock myself – and as you know, I had no illusions about Nick. This is the first time I've even worked on the inventory since then. I'm just assuming that, since we own the property, we'll have a chapter here. If we won't, we can easily box up the duplicates later on."

"True. OK." He picked up a bound stack of leaflets. "Fliers called 'The Chains of Luxury.' Looks like a bundle of – twenty-five."

"Leave ten here and put fifteen in the box for New Mexico." Dean did that as Sue-Ann typed up the entry. Dean went back to the shelf. "Next, we have the action-packed – "

They heard the back door slam open and shut a moment before Max blew into the room, headed for his electronics. He didn't even look at them as he said, "Meeting hall. Now."


	6. Chapter 6

Sue-Ann stood. "Is someone – Is it – "

Max stopped dead at his computer table, suddenly seeming to realize that he was causing panic. "No, everyone's OK. As far as I know. Clark just told me to get everyone to the meeting hall ASAP."

He bent to move the mouse, and a bell recording Dean had never heard before rang out over the public address system – jangling, urgent and insistent.

Almost everyone had been enjoying unscheduled time before the Night Bell. Eve and Gloria were standing up from a card game in the dining room. Rosco, looking sleepy, emerged from the basement staircase as Jess descended from the second floor. She and Dean exchanged quick baffled looks.

Max joined them at the back door, but stayed there, looking at the meeting house below. Betsy was descending the slope from the trailer. In the pool of light by the meeting-hall door, Clark stepped out of the building and beckoned to Max.

Max went back into the house, and a moment later the bells stopped jangling. When he rejoined Dean and Sue-Ann they were halfway down the dark slope, Dean lightly clasping Sue-Ann's arm.

"He didn't tell you anything?" Dean asked Max.

"Nothing. He was kind of in a tizzy."

"A – tizzy? Clark?"

"Guess we'll find out," Max said, and launched himself toward the meeting hall.

When they arrived, Sue-Ann went to take her place in the front row with Betsy and Jess. Clark and Casey were on the platform in front of the long vinyl banner. Casey was sitting in one of the stacking chairs, wide-eyed and still. Clark was pacing on the platform, every line of his body and face indicating excitement. Dean found Dirk and sat beside him. Dirk looked up with a quick smile and nod before directing his attention to the stage.

With such a small group, Clark didn't bother with the microphone. "We're all here? We're all here," he answered himself. "I have an announcement."

He looked for a moment as if he were suppressing joyous laughter. He controlled it to a broad grin and a ripple in his voice as he said, "And I promise, I won't say I told you so. Casey has had a revelation."

Gloria let out a startled, "Oh!" But other than that, the group was silent as attention was directed to Casey.

"I was – " she began in a light wispy voice that sounded more like Betsy's than her own. She cleared her throat, took a breath, and proceeded, sounding more like herself.

"I stayed here after the worship service tonight, thinking and praying. Mourning. A little while ago, I was looking around, trying to figure out if we could build something worthy of receiving the Messenger's urn. If it would be wrong somehow to place the urn where he was murdered. If we should just wait to get to New Mexico and build something suitable from scratch. And the Messenger spoke to me."

A little formless ripple of sound went over the group.

"I felt this – heavy, sweet – peaceful feeling, and he said, 'Don't fear me, Casey.' I didn't even look around; I knew it was his spirit talking to mine. And then he said – "

Casey's eyes dropped shut and her voice changed very slightly. "Not my death. Authority will find the Damned soul who destroyed my body, and ashes are but ashes. I would that my people would focus, not on my death, but on my life, my life's work. Lifeblood, for which my life's blood was shed.

"'I have longed for my people, and I have heard their cries. I have found a way to reach them. Casey, Bride of my Body, you will serve as my voicebox, my lips and tongue. Through you I will tell them: Grieve no more. Shake from your feet the dust of the town where my body was destroyed, and move as one to the new land. There I will guide them to glory.'"

In the stillness, Casey's eyes opened.

"That was all. It was so intense that I collapsed. When I could get back on my feet I went to find Clark."

"I knew something like this would happen!" Clark said joyously, as animated as Casey was calm. "I knew the Messenger would never leave us completely!"

"You weren't gonna say 'I told you so'!" Rosco cried, and a few people laughed.

"Yes, well – I told you so," Clark said with a broad grin, and there was louder laughter.

"This is a time to celebrate. I'm calling a Council meeting for eight o'clock tomorrow morning, and – We have so much to discuss – but among other things, I propose that September 26th be named a holiday, a Lifeblood religious holiday, the Return of the Messenger. But for now, we'll assemble in the dining room. I'm personally going to the all-night market for fruit and cheese and bread – "

"And ice cream!" Eve called, and people laughed.

"Yes, and ice cream, why not? And apple juice. We'll make our toasts in the beverage of the season. And we'll plan for our move and the glory we've been promised. We are no longer leaderless!" He raised his arms. "Thank you, Lord!"

"Thank you, Lord!" the congregation responded.

"Bless us, Lord!"

"Bless us, Lord!"

"You have thwarted our enemies!"

The walls seemed to vibrate with, "You have thwarted our enemies!"

Clark lowered his arms. "Let's celebrate!"

If he was expecting a mass run back up to the house, he should have known better. Max tried to talk to Clark the moment he stepped off the platform, and Clark himself touched Sue-Ann's arm and said something to her. Casey was mobbed by Accepters as she made her way to the front door, telling the story again, pointing out exactly where it had happened. Dirk and Gloria embraced openly; Gloria laughed and wiped tears of joy off her face as they left; Dirk, for the first time since Dean had known him, looked happy.

Dean and Jess lagged behind, moving out of the light and making sure the others were well up the slope before they began talking in low tones.

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

"I can't tell. She might be faking it, you know, for additional power. Or maybe she just wanted to hear from Nick so badly that eventually, she heard from him."

"Uh – I think those are the options myself. But I'm kind of surprised that you don't think it could be, y'know, genuine."

"For it to be genuine," Jess said grimly, "Nick would have needed to be spiritually great, so devoted to Lifeblood that his spirit could transcend death. And he was a self-absorbed manipulative bastard, about as holy as some televangelist telling people to send him money."

Dean came to a dead stop. "Is there something – in the water today?" he said, remembering suddenly to lower his voice. "Ten minutes ago Sue-Ann was calling him a hypocritical pig!"

"Sue-Ann? Really? She doesn't think he was the Messenger?"

"Oh, she thinks he was God's Messenger. That's what makes his sins all the worse, you see."

Jess nodded. "I see. Yes, she was never very happy about the Brides. I always thought it was because she couldn't believe that the spiritual and the physical could combine. I'm really good at explanations like that. Excuses. I've been coming up with so many lately. And since Nick died, all the stuff Sam found out and all the stuff I've been realizing –

"I was talking to Gloria today. Dirk asked permission to court her, and Nick just said no. He said he'd tell them when the right person came along. And it just hit me. There was no reason to keep them apart. Nick just wanted to do it. Maybe he thought Gloria would make a good Bride, or maybe he just wanted to control them. Like he controls the books in the library, the TV in his office, like he controls the doctrines and the communication, and the cars. He didn't care about God. He didn't care about any of us."

She sucked in a breath. Dean glanced up the slope, but the others weren't noticing the laggards, and Jess was keeping her voice down, a savage murmur. "It hit me so hard, and I was trying to explain it to myself or ignore it, and I couldn't. It was just there. He wasn't the Messenger of God, he wasn't anything, and I built my life on nothing. I gave up my family, I gave up Sam, I gave up everything. For nothing. I started crying and I couldn't stop. I had to hide in the bathroom and cry for twenty minutes." She sounded on the verge of tears as she said it.

"I'm so sorry, Jess."

"It's OK. It was like a truck ran me over. But the truck's gone now."

"Yeah, well – That doesn't mean you're not still royally messed up. You know what you should do. You should talk to Cas. He's really good about understanding people's – spiritual stuff."

"I'm not giving up Lifeblood," she said fiercely, as if he'd proposed that. "The basic principles are good. And the people are good."

"Except the one who's a, y'know, murderer."

She nodded.

"So – Do you want to tell the police about the knife now?"

"No. I want to stick to our deal. The more I know, the more I can see how many people might have felt justified in killing Nick. And God, for the police to come down over all of us now? Just when people are starting to feel some hope?" She looked at him pleadingly. "It's only three more days."

"All right. We'd better postpone our murder re-creation, though. People are gonna be up late, and they might be wandering around. That apple juice'll make you pretty wild and crazy."

Jess huffed a laugh as they started up the slope. Then she looked around. "She's still in there."

Dean followed her back to the meeting hall, where Betsy was sitting alone, unmoving, in the first row of chairs.

Jess stood beside her and bent, touching her shoulder, while Dean moved around beside Jess. "Betsy?" Jess said quietly. "Are you OK?"

Betsy looked up with an expression not so much sad as completely baffled.

"Why wouldn't he talk to me?" she whispered.

.

Sam's investigations were making him well acquainted with the Kansas City area. Today he was in downtown Kansas City, Missouri, surrounded by skyscrapers, paying too much for parking, walking through a quiet high-ceilinged marble-accented lobby to a bank of elevators under the wary look of a security guard.

The back wall of the elevator was mirrored, and he adjusted his tie. It may have been obvious that the suit was an attempt to make him look older. There were times when it was a disadvantage to have skipped a grade early in school and finished high school early; looking like you'd just graduated from high school when in fact you were a college junior was one of them.

The law firm's name was lettered on heavy glass double doors; the receptionist's desk was reached after crossing ten feet of squishy dark green carpet. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, please. My name is Sam Winchester. I'd like to speak with Karen Li."

The receptionist's brow puckered a little. "She's very busy today. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I don't. But I really only need five minutes of her time. Could you tell her I'm here about Clark Bishop?"

The receptionist picked up the phone and murmured into it. Rather than wait for an answer, Sam sat in a lobby chair and began punching icons on a smartphone, looking like someone happily prepared to spend the entire day.

Not even ten minutes. A wide-eyed young woman came into the lobby from a hallway, held a murmured talk with the receptionist, then walked over to him. "Sam?"

As she led him down the hall, she asked, "Are you a friend of Clark's?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to find him."

Her pace slowed; he damn near walked over her. "Are you with the police?"

"No."

"Are you a private investigator?" she asked, in a tone clearly implying that she hoped he was.

Which is why Sam replied quietly, "Well – I'm doing some investigating, let's just say that."

She nodded, then put on a pert smile and led him past a couple of clerical workstations to an office door labeled "K.A. Li."

The attorney didn't look as Chinese as her name might have implied, but she was dark skinned and black-haired, exotic looking for the Midwest even these days. Her direct, emotionless gaze was intimidating.

"Thank you so much for seeing me, Ms. Li," Sam said, seating himself as she opened one hand to indicate a chair. "A friend of mine told me that Clark Bishop used to practice domestic relations law at this firm, so I thought I'd go straight to the head of the department to ask my question."

Her eyebrows went up one millimeter. "A question about Clark?"

"Yes. I'm studying law at the University of Kansas, and I'm trying to figure out where I go after graduation. You know, a big firm like this has so many advantages, but it seems to me like in a smaller firm, you could do a greater variety of work, and of course the idea of calling your own shots as a solo practitioner sounds pretty good, too. A friend of mine told me about Mr. Bishop, how he'd gone from practicing in a huge firm to being a solo practitioner, and I thought, well, he's run the whole gamut, he could probably give me some good advice."

He paused for breath. Li blinked, which, with the minuscule eyebrow adjustment, seemed to exhaust her repertoire of facial movement.

"The problem is, I can't find him. I was really hoping to talk to him, but then I thought, Maybe at the place where he worked, they could tell me why he left. Was he wanting to do different kinds of work other than domestic relations? Did he get tired of commuting and want to work out of his home? Or, you know, was there something that kind of disillusioned him?"

She looked at him for a moment.

Then she said, "So you don't want to talk to him, you want to talk about him."

She obviously hadn't bought a syllable of it.

"Well, of course the ideal thing would be to talk to him, but if you can't tell me where to find him, maybe you could tell me about his, you know, the reason for the change he made."

She continued to look at him. Sam could usually return a stare with a frank, direct look, but his gaze was just a bit unsteady this time.

"What do you really want?" she asked.

Sam hesitated, then leaned forward with the air of one rolling the dice.

"My girlfriend joined a cult," he said. "This Bishop guy is real high up in the hierarchy. She was raving to me about him, telling me how he gave up this high-paying job at a big law firm just because money wasn't fulfilling enough. I call shenanigans. I think there's some other reason he left. I mean, I realize you don't just talk about former employees to everybody, but I'm really worried about her, the kind of people she's around. The cult leader got stabbed to death week before last."

Her eyebrows did the millimeter rise. "The people in Lawrence? Clark's involved with them?"

He nodded, and she said, "Interesting."

There was a moment's silence.

Then Sam said, "You agreed to see me, so I thought, maybe you might – have something to say."

"I thought possibly you were here on behalf of another party."

Sam stayed quiet. Two can play the game of drawing information out of someone by silence.

Or not. "I can't tell you anything about Clark. I understand your concern for your girlfriend, but, as a young person yourself, you should know that the more evidence you try to present in favor of her leaving the cult, the more she will defend them."

She rose. "I have a meeting in five minutes."

As gently as he could speak, Sam asked, "Who was the other party you thought I was representing?"

"Goodbye."

"Right. Sorry." Sam stood. "Thanks anyway, for seeing me."

He half stuck out his hand, seemed to realize that a handshake wasn't going to happen, dropped it and headed for the door.

"For what it's worth," Li said. Sam turned.

"And this is the end of our conversation," she said firmly. "But for what it's worth, you have a good sense for – calling shenanigans."

He gave her a slight smile. "Thanks," he said, and left.

The young secretary was working at her computer as he came out, but she spun in her chair to hand him something. "I thought you might want to have Ms. Li's card."

It was Ms. Li's card, but she'd handed it to him upside-down, with one word written on the blank side: "Staircase."

"Thanks," he said. "Have a good afternoon."

He found the staircase door and waited inside of it for a minute before it opened and she joined him.

"If you ever tell anyone I told you about this, I'll say I didn't. And I'd probably lose my job anyway."

"I won't," Sam said.

She handed him a slip of paper, and Sam quelled a quick smile – she was handling it with tissue paper, presumably to keep her fingerprints off of it. He took the paper and looked at it. It bore two women's names, each with a phone number underneath.

She tapped the top name and number with a fingernail. "She probably won't tell you anything either. She stands to lose a lot of money if she does. But try anyway. Clark Bishop should be in jail."

"Thanks. Same thing for the other name?"

She smiled suddenly, prettily. "No, that's mine."

He grinned back at her. "OK. Well. Thanks."

She gave him a little wave and left the stairwell quickly.

He gave her thirty seconds to get well away, while he looked at the piece of paper.

"Note to self," he mumbled with a smile. "Wear suit more often."

.

Dean was sitting in the front row of the chairs in the darkened meeting house, talking on his cell phone. A flashlight lying on the chair next to him illuminated a patch of the platform before him. Everything else caught only light from the building's narrow high-set windows, starlight on one side and distant gleams from the house on the other side, which meant the room was essentially pitch black.

"So are you going to ask her out?" Dean asked.

"Seriously considering it. The only problem is, I have a feeling she might freak if she finds out I'm only eighteen."

"Maybe she's a cougar."

"Dean, she's like twenty-five. Did you want to hear the rest of this story?"

"You talked to the gal on the note?"

"And it wasn't easy. It was really hard even to get her to see me."

"Yeah, the puppy-dog expression doesn't work so well over the phone."

"I do not have a puppy-dog expression!" Sam exclaimed. "I just, you know, I think I look pretty sincere."

"Puppy dog."

"Whatever. She finally agreed to let me come over and then we did this whole dance. She wants to talk about it, badly, but like Cindy said, she could lose a lot of money if she does."

"Cindy's the secretary?"

"Right. So anyway, after about an hour of promising the lady I wouldn't tell the authorities I talked to her, and 'Let's say I'm writing a story,' and 'Hypothetically, what would happen next,' here's what I got.

"Clark was her divorce attorney. She's about fifty, not antique, but not real young either, and she has bundles o' bucks. You should see her house. Anyway, the guy she married wasn't as rich, and she was looking at some heavy-duty payments even with the prenuptial agreement they had. Clark, the jerk, suggests transferring some of her investments to an account under another name, so as to hide them from her husband."

"Well, isn't that the kind of thing lawyers do?"

"Thanks a lot, Dean! No, lawyers generally do not perpetrate fraud for their clients."

"Well, I don't know. So that would be a fraud?"

"One of the first things that happens in a divorce is, each party questions the other one about the full extent of their assets. You answer those questions and swear to the truth of the answers before a notary public. If you lie under oath about those assets, you're committing fraud. But that's not the full story of Clark and the client's money."

Dean sat up straighter. "He stole it."

"Told her he lost it in a bad investment. Maybe he did and maybe he just kept it, but the bottom line is, she lost a lot of money. I don't know how he thought he'd get away with it. Maybe he thought she wouldn't want to admit the attempted fraud, or maybe he figured she was too much in love with him to blow the whistle."

"In love?"

"Yeah, they were having an affair on top of everything else. She showed me some poems he wrote her – pretty hot stuff, in between the hearts and flowers."

"Damn," Dean said. "I wouldn't have thought he had it in him. Writing hot poetry, I mean. The stealing doesn't surprise me so much."

"She's still messed up over it. She was having a hard time not crying when she talked about it. Hey Dean, when this whole thing is over, can I come down there and kick Clark around the block?"

"Far as I'm concerned. So then what happened?"

"She was too embarrassed to report it to the police, but she reported it to Clark's boss. Which actually might've been worse. I mean, the boss, Ms. Li, was really calm and controlled when I met with her this morning, but I have the feeling that if she got mad you wouldn't even want to be in the same state."

"And in fact Clark isn't."

"Yeah." Sam chuckled. "Well, the firm has a lot of rich clients, and apparently they really didn't want it to get around that one of their attorneys is a thief. So, major cover-up. The firm drew up an agreement with the lady where they repay her the money Clark lost plus a bundle, and she agrees never to breathe a word about it – "

"— except to sincere-looking pre-law students – "

"Shut up. If she does talk about it, she has to pay a big chunk of the money back. She agrees not to sue the firm. The firm agrees never to talk about the whole thing. Everyone agrees that they admit no guilt. Clark gets his final paycheck and doesn't get reported to the police, and in return – "

" – his butt gets introduced to the sidewalk."

"Exactly."

"That's interesting, Sam." Dean leaned back in the chair. "Y'know, Sue-Ann's in her fifties, and Clark's got her pretty gaga over him too. Except in the opposite way – she thinks he's celibate and way purer spiritually than Munroe was."

"Well, tell her to hang on to her wallet."

"The thing is, I don't see how this gets Munroe killed. Maybe he found out about it and was holding it over Clark's head?"

"Hey! If Sue-Ann thinks Clark's so great, maybe she killed Nick, thinking Clark would take over."

"Maybe."

"How are people taking the whole revelation thing?" Sam asked, as Dean heard the back door of the meeting hall slide open and shut.

"They're really excited. It's like everyone's been stuck and depressed for a couple of weeks, and this has kick-started everything. Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow," Dean finished, as a flashlight beam preceded Jess around the banner. "My lovely assistant is here to help magically re-create the crime."

As Jess struck a magician's-assistant pose, Sam said, "I'm going to try to track down Sue-Ann's ex-husband. You said her last name is LeGrange, and her ex is a minister?"

"I did. I also said not to skip too many classes."

"Four-point-oh last semester, Dean."

"Yeah, which is why if you drop down to two-point-six this semester Dad's personally going to drive up to Lawrence and throttle me."

"Oh well, as long as it's you and not me, no problem. Listen, Dean, be careful."

"I'll be home Saturday. Remind Cas of that if you see him, would you?"

"OK. See ya."

"See ya."

As Dean put the phone in his pocket, Jess said, "I counted seconds in my head while I ran here. I'm very accurate with that. It took me twenty-five seconds to run from the trailer to the back door. And it wasn't easy without spraining an ankle, on that hill in the dark."

"No less than twenty-five seconds, then. Good to know. It's about the same from the back door of the house to the back door here. So anyone coming to lie in wait for Nick needed to allow about a minute running time, besides the killing and the cleanup. And, thanks to you, we know he did the killing somewhere between 9:10 and 9:15."

"We do?"

"You got back at 9:15, right?"

"Yes. I was helping to wash up dinner dishes when Casey asked me to go to the craft store and get paint for the dishes. She was going to do it herself, but she decided the reinforcement class was more important. Then after class, she was going to join Betsy and me stenciling and painting."

"Kind of in a rush, wasn't she?"

"Well, remember, we were supposed to be packing for New Mexico by now, and we wanted to leave the complete set behind."

"Oh, yeah."

"I got to the store about a quarter to nine, spent a little time picking out the colors that are closest to our logo, and checked out while the store was closing. So I got back here about 9:15."

"You saw the light on down by the meeting hall and the door open. And then the light went off, right?"

"Right. Our other car was parked in the driveway, so I just parked on the bare ground next to it. The garage isn't in front of you there, so you can see clear down the hill. I thought someone had been setting something up in the meeting hall and just forgot the door. So I came down here."

"And he looked at you."

"And made a sound – God, it was – "

"OK, you don't need to focus on the details," Dean said soothingly. "The point is, he was alive when you found him. But with injuries like that, he couldn't have been lying there alive for long."

"I think he died while I was trying to do CPR. I just kept doing it because I refused to think he could be dead."

"So he was certainly attacked just a matter of minutes before you found him. Here's what I think happened: The murderer came in the meeting hall from the back and waited for Nick. Nick came in from the front, kicking on the motion-sensor light. He was stabbed the moment he walked in and the murderer went out the back. No one else came close enough to turn on the light – obviously, since if they had they'd have noticed the open door and the body – so the light that you saw go off was the same light that Nick turned on by going into the meeting house."

"It only lasts a few minutes if no one's moving around."

"Five minutes, Max told me. And I confirmed that tonight. After dinner I set off the light and timed it with a stopwatch." Dean held it up; it was on a lanyard around his neck.

"Where'd you get a stopwatch?"

"There's a sporting goods place near the garage. Anyway, Max was right. It's within a few seconds of five minutes. So Nick came into the meeting hall, was killed, the killer cleaned up and got away, and you showed up, all within five minutes."

"Why would Nick come here anyway?"

"I was hoping you might know. Any special ritual or something he might do in the meeting hall on a Saturday night?"

Jess shook her head; Dean was keeping his flashlight near her face. "But obviously, there was someone he had a problem with," she said. "They might've said, let's meet and discuss this. But if we meet in the office Sue-Ann might come upstairs and hear us, or Jess might come back from the crafts store. Let's meet someplace where people aren't inventorying books or having a class."

"That's good. I mean, unless you're with the Mafia, you don't expect someone you're having a fight with to kill you."

"So they stabbed Nick as soon as he came in, ran out the back door and came back up to the house or trailer."

"Except that if they did it the way I think they did, it wouldn't have been that easy."

Dean stood and walked toward the back of the building, past Jess. When he'd reached the sink behind the banner, he turned. "How do you stab someone and not get blood all over your clothes?"

"Um – a lot of Saran Wrap? Oh!" Jess' tone changed sharply. "Just don't wear clothes."

"Exactly. So I'm thinkin' – " He pointed down at the big washtub. "Have some water ready in there, stand in it, wash yourself off."

"But you don't know how long it's going to be before Nick's body is found. You can't risk showing up with wet hair, if your story is that you were inventorying books, or in a class."

"Right."

"Ski mask?"

"Or just a stocking mask, maybe. We need to think small and portable. See, at first I thought someone was trying to frame you, Jess – using the knife from the bakery and telling the deputies about how you got punished. But nothing else has turned up pointing to you. Now I'm wondering if the killer's trying to make it look like someone came in from outside – which is what most of you think, anyway."

"An outsider wouldn't wash the blood off?"

"I don't think he'd spend a lot of time on it. Would you? Maybe he'd have a jacket he could pull on and zip up afterward, maybe stop at the sink to take off the gloves and rinse his face, but other than that, run up to the road, get the hell back into your car, wherever that is, and obey every traffic law in Douglas County getting home."

"But someone here could just take a shower."

"Walking up the hill and through the house naked, covered in blood, carrying their clothes."

"OK." Jess nodded. "The washtub. But by your own theory, you can't have a lot of water splashed around that makes it look like someone spent a lot of time in clean-up."

"Hence, the washtub." Dean pulled it out from under the sink and stepped into it. "Plenty of width to wipe yourself off. There's a cloth here on the edge of the sink, are there any others around?"

Jess smiled and opened up a nearby metal cabinet, revealing stacks of white sheets and cloths. "We use a lot of water in our rituals, so we have a lot of white towels and things."

"You keep an inventory of those things?"

"No. When they get worn out we get new ones wherever they're cheap and demote these to cleaning cloths."

"And someone in Lifeblood would know that. So – " Dean, still standing in the washtub, mimed scrubbing himself, then stepped out. "And the water goes right down the sink."

"But you're dripping all over. And I don't see how you're going to empty it into that sink – the sink's way narrower than the tub."

"I could do it."

"I don't think so."

"Question of technique, my dear." Dean filled a bucket with water twice, emptying it into the washtub. Then he stooped, his arms spread wide, to grab the yard-wide tub. As Jess backed up a bit, he lifted the tub higher than the sink. "Watch and learn."

A very splashy moment later, as Jess made no attempt to suppress her giggles, Dean admitted, "OK. And the drain in the center of the floor would be even worse. Not the washtub."

"He – or she – either stood at the sink and sponged off or filled a bucket and used that. And either way, there's so much water on the floor it's going to be clear that someone stood around and washed off."

"And if that had been clear, I don't think the Sheriff's office would've spent much time at all interviewing outsiders like Sam and the CER guys. I think they'd have been grilling Lifeblood people 24/7."

"So the killer at least made it look somewhat like someone just ran back home without washing up in here," Jess said. "But I don't see how."

"Do you guys have a tarp or some plastic sheeting back here?"

They both searched, but found none.

"Dammit," Dean mumbled as they moved back into the main part of the room. "I'd have sworn I had – "

"Oh, Dean!"

Jess was pointing at the banner.

"Is it waterproof?"

"Waterproof and weatherproof. It's made of a kind of reinforced vinyl, you can feel the little threads in it."

"I've never really noticed, is it hard to get down?"

"Not at all. There's a pole that runs across the ceiling, and the sign's attached by big, kind of, shower-curtain rings."

"He'd need a ladder."

Jess disappeared behind the banner and Dean's flashlight found her as she came back out with a small stepladder. It was high enough to allow Dean to put it on the platform, stand on it, and pull the banner toward him along the pole, disengaging the first five rings.

"I think that would be enough," Jess said, her voice a little excited. "I don't think he'd have to take down the whole thing."

Dean got off the ladder as Jess draped the banner, upside down, across the platform and down onto the cement floor next to the drain. "Stand on that and put the bucket on it. When you're clean, push the water, with your cloth, onto the drain carefully. Wipe down the banner, pour the bucket into the sink and wipe that down. Hang the banner back up, and I really think there'd only be a trace of water around the drain and a little water in the sink. No one would think twice about it."

"Let's time it," Dean said.

He gave her the stopwatch and stood by the door. "OK. I've got my banner and ladder and bucket and cloth set up. My clothes are – someplace where blood won't spurt on them and I won't accidentally splash bloody water on them. I've got a stocking mask on to keep blood off my hair and face. I've got some kind of gloves on, probably latex-type gloves, to keep my prints from getting on the knife, but the handle working around in the glove has the additional effect of removing your and Betsy's prints. The light outside goes on, and a few – "

"Your feet," Jess said suddenly. "If you leave a bloody footprint, you're dead."

"Crap. No, it's OK. I leave my shoes on. Everyone will be walking around Nick's body before the Sheriff's office gets here. Maybe I'm planning on being the one to discover him. Anyway, there are going to be a lot of shoeprints in the blood. If I get down to look at him or help with CPR or pray or something, I even have a reason for blood on my shoe tops. OK. When I say, 'Light,' you start the stopwatch. I'm waiting by the door – "

He broke off suddenly, then continued in a different tone. "Naked, wearing a stocking mask and latex gloves and shoes, holding a knife. I look like something in a really bizarre kink movie."

He chuckled a bit, but apparently Jess failed to see the humor. "You'll have to attack Nick the instant he gets inside."

"For sure. All right. We have a five-minute deadline. Light."

Jess started the stopwatch. Dean allowed a few seconds for Nick to get to the door and open it, then lunged, using the flashlight as a knife. He struck first at the level of his own throat, struggled for a few seconds, struck lower, fought the ghost Nick to the ground, and stabbed downward, hard, twice more.

He pretended to drop the knife and did some scrabbling with his hands where Nick's body would be. Then he stood, panting a bit, and walked fast up the aisle to where the bucket was sitting on the banner. Jess' flashlight beam followed him. He took off his shoes and put them on the banner, stood on the banner himself and mimed pulling off gloves and the stocking mask, dipping them in the bucket, then wringing and dropping them. He dipped an imaginary cloth into the bucket several times, pretending to scrub himself all over his arms and the front of his body. He stepped away from the bucket and mimed using a second cloth to dry himself perfunctorily.

He moved the bucket off the banner, gave the soles of his shoes a wipe with one of the cloths, then used that cloth to carefully push imaginary splattered water off the banner into the drain. He wrung out the imaginary cloth, took the bucket to the sink and mimed pouring in the water. He actually turned on the faucet to rinse out the bucket, emptying it around the side of the sink, then shook final drops out of the bucket, wiped out its inside, wiped out the inside of the sink, and mimed wringing out the cloth. He put the bucket back under the sink.

He went back near the banner and mimed getting dressed, then mimed tucking something under his waistband. He stood on the ladder, dragged the banner up and hooked the rings onto the pole. He got off the ladder, stepped off the platform carrying it, folded and leaned it against the wall, pulled the banner out the length of the pole, hustled to the back door and touched it. "Time."

"Six minutes, forty-two seconds."

Dean swore, moving back into the main room and sitting down.

"Couple of questions," Jess said. "First, why didn't you close the door?"

"Turn off your flashlight," Dean said.

She did, and they were engulfed in blackness.

"There's not really enough light to see by in here unless you turn on the overhead lights, which I'm sure not going to do when anyone who glances down here can see that the lights are on. But I don't want to go crashing around, falling over chairs, knocking over my bucket, not being able to find my clothes. If I leave the door open the way Nick left it, the light from the motion-sensor outside will spill in here, enough for me to see. And the way the door opens, it actually blocks the view of the doorway from the house and trailer. The door wasn't open much when you saw it, was it?"

"No. Just enough that I could tell it was open. All right, that answers that. Now. What were you doing with Nick's body before you went up to wash off?"

"Searching his pockets for his phone and taking it."

"I was wondering about that. If the murderer took it to delay us calling 911."

"And that reinforces the idea that it was a Lifeblood member. A random guy would expect most people to have a phone. A Lifeblood member would know that if he took Nick's phone, it'd be something like a nine-to-one chance against whoever found the body having a phone, and that delays getting Nick any help that much longer. And who knows, if the cops start breathing down my neck, maybe I can plant the bloody phone on someone else to try and frame them."

"God," Jess said even more quietly than they were already speaking. "That means Nick was lying here strangling on blood while the killer was just going through his pockets and washing up."

"Don't think about it. No point. He didn't suffer long, and we're gonna figure out who made him suffer."

Jess nodded.

"Any other questions?"

"I had a third one, what – Oh. When you were dressing. What were you putting down your pants?"

Dean laughed softly. "I was thinking about this earlier. For all I know, the cloths I washed off with and the stocking mask might have my DNA all over them, even with the rinsing. Plus, the deputies are going to be searching the entire compound. Ideally, I want to get those things completely off the property. So. Who left the property that night?"

"No one. Well, all of us, going to the Sheriff's office downtown for questioning."

"So I figure, drape those things over the waistband of my underwear, under my skirt or pants. If I tuck in my shirt, that provides an extra layer of absorption. If I wear my shirt outside my pants or skirt, all the better. If the deputies come and go and leave me here, I can get rid of that stuff later on. If they take me to the station, I can get rid of it somewhere off the property. And anyway, Jess, after seeing the way you looked, no one's going to even raise an eyebrow if someone has a small damp spot on their shirt."

She nodded. "And it was so confused afterward, people being let go at all different times. One time while I was waiting, Gloria used a phone there to try to call Clark, but it went to voicemail. I guess he was still being questioned. She said she and Dirk were just going to walk back to Heartland, it must've taken them forever. So, if I'm the killer, when the deputies let me out, I walk over to a convenience store or a park or something, put those things in the bottom of a trash can, and just keep going. That's good, Dean."

"Yeah, it's great. Except at the moment, the light's been off for a minute and a half when you get back. And even if you do come down and find Nick's body, you're also gonna see a guy putting on his shoes and the banner's half-down. My guess is you'd remember that."

"True."

They thought for a moment. "Maybe he put up the banner earlier than that, did a lot of it back behind there?" Dean said. "But you started screaming and people started looking down here the moment you found Nick. How come no one saw someone making a run for it from the back door of the meeting hall? Maybe he hid somewhere?"

"Or maybe it's simpler than that," Jess said thoughtfully. "Let's do this again. I'll tell you where it goes different."

"And I'd like to do it as completely as possible, real water and stuff," Dean said. "Can you handle it if I strip down to my shorts?"

She giggled. "I'll try. Hope nobody walks in."

"Tell 'em you're trying to convert me to hetero. They'll be cool."

They positioned banner, bucket, cloths, ladder, and Dean's clothes. Jess stood on the platform, the stopwatch cord around her neck. Dean, wearing shorts and shoes, stood by the front door, holding his flashlight like a knife. "Light."

For the first couple of minutes, it was the same: Dean stabbed, moved, took off his shoes, mimed taking off the gloves and mask but really dipped his hand into the water as though rinsing them, then genuinely scrubbed himself down, re-dipping the cloth a couple of times. He picked up a second cloth and began to dry himself.

At which point, Jess tucked the hem of her skirt up into her waistband. "If I'm a man, I just took off my pants," she said, moving forward.

"Woo-woo," Dean said, but without inflection – he was kneeling to wipe off the banner.

"No, dump the bucket and rinse it," Jess said, kneeling on bare legs to begin pushing water off the banner to the drain. Dean had been good about not splattering too much, and the floor sloped gently toward the drain from all directions, but it was still time-consuming to keep water from running all over. By the time she was finished, Dean had rinsed and wiped the bucket and sink and was dressing.

"Leave the gloves or the stocking for me," Jess said, wringing out the cloth over the drain. "I'll take this cloth, you take that one."

They genuinely tucked the cloths in their underwear and mimed the other items. Jess restored her skirt. Dean finished dressing as Jess mounted the stepladder. Dean dragged the banner, lifting it so that Jess didn't have to pull up its full weight and bulk.

She connected three rings. "I'm fine from here. Go."

Dean stepped off the platform, went to the back door, and touched it. "Time."

Jess spared a moment to glance at the stopwatch. "Three minutes fifty-five seconds."

She connected the last two rings, got off the stepladder and took it off the platform, pulled the banner straight, put the ladder back where it had been, ran the few steps to the back door, touched it, and stopped the watch. "Four minutes twenty seconds."

They both let out a little breath. Jess leaned her back against the door.

"Whoever I am," Dean said, "I'm up to the house or trailer by now – or in Dirk's case, wherever he was. You'll be there at four minutes fifty seconds, when Nosy Jess will be getting out of the car and notice the light on by the meeting hall and the door open. A few seconds after that, the light goes off, and Nosy Jess starts down the slope – Did you run?"

"No. I just thought someone left the door open. I could tell there weren't any lights on inside."

"So Jess walks down the hill at a normal pace, over to the meeting hall, the light kicks on, she sees Nick and starts screaming. And we two, whoever we are, we're in our places with bright shining faces."

"Unbelievable."

"You were right, Jess. We may not know who did it, but we know one thing."

"It was a two-person job," Jess said.


	7. Chapter 7

On Friday there was a burst of activity. Clark and Jess teamed up to find an agent for the sale of both the Heartland property and the bakery business. Sue-Ann and Dean finished the library inventory and boxing; duplicates were still left on the shelves, but now to serve as a skeleton library until the actual move. Max looked for rental-van bargains online and planned the route to the New Mexico property. Gloria and Rosco went through the storage rooms in the trailer, deciding what would be taken to New Mexico and what could be given away or sold. Casey took a load of dishes into town for firing while Betsy kept painting.

Jess and Dean got only a few minutes to talk. They spent the time speculating on which pair of Lifeblood members might have killed Nick, but couldn't come up with any two that seemed vastly more likely than any others.

When Dean was released from his Probationer class at 9:50, he strolled casually past the meeting hall, then looked around to be sure he wasn't being observed, then ducked behind the building and got out his phone.

It was answered immediately. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas! Good to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear yours, too. I'd rather see you in person."

"That goes double, buddy. I'd suggest a quick round of phone sex, but I'm outdoors and it's a little chilly for that."

Cas laughed. "I guess you'll have to settle for the real thing tomorrow. What time will you be back? Can I come and get you?"

"Not sure. We're going to be here most of the day – Jess wants one more shot at Nick's office, although I think that's a wild goose chase myself. Sometime when I can do it I'm going to put my stuff in a box and smuggle it out to the car. About 5:30, when Jess usually goes to close down the bakery for the day, she's going to take me with her and say she needs my help on something. We'll go straight to the Sheriff's office and she's going to tell them about the knife, and about our trying to re-create the crime. After that, how long it takes is up to them. If they think we're brilliant and want to hear all about it, we might be there a while. My guess is, they're gonna say, 'Oh great, the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, that's what we need,' and kick us politely out. What I'm saying is, somewhere between six and nine o'clock, and you'll probably be picking me up at the Sheriff's office."

"The only thing I have scheduled tomorrow is a visit to the Spencer Museum at 11:30, so we'll obviously be out well before six, but if you – "

"'We?' As in, you and Balthazar?"

"And some friends of his. Don't do this, Dean."

"I'm not doing anything. Look," Dean leaned against the meeting house wall, "I know we've got this thing where there's my stuff and there's your stuff and there's stuff we do together. I'm just saying, Balthazar's smart friends aren't the only ones who can enjoy a museum, y'know."

"I know. I've thoroughly enjoyed it when we've gone to museums together."

"Maybe I should suggest it more often, or something. I know I'm not the most cultured – "

"Dean, I'm not going to listen – "

"— and I shouldn't get bent out of shape when you enjoy being around cultured people – "

"I enjoy being around you more than anyone."

"Well. Thanks."

"And for some reason, you don't believe me."

"I know I'm pretty bright for a normal guy. But you're hanging out with PhDs and college teachers, and – "

"You're talking about status, not intelligence."

"Either way, it feels – " Dean pulled himself straight. "Well. Look. I'm in this for the long haul. I'll learn to deal. Um, any special exhibit you're going to see?"

"Trash. As a reflection of society."

"Like – actual trash?"

"Arranged in three dimensional collages and sculptures, yes."

"Oh. Well. Have fun."

Cas laughed. "I don't know about fun, but I think it'll be interesting. The point is, I'll have my phone off in the museum, but I'll be out long before you'll be at the Sheriff's office. I had a question. – That was it. Won't Jess be in trouble with the group when she leaves with you and comes back without you?"

"No, she'll just say that it surprised her when I pulled a box out of the back seat and said I was leaving to resume my former sinful life. She tried to talk me out of it for however long, but finally I just walked away and left her – Wait."

His voice dropped to sudden quiet as he saw a figure yards away, walking toward the barn in the darkness.

"Dean?" The syllable was sharp and concerned.

"Don't worry. Nothing dangerous. Gotta go. Love you." Dean disconnected so quickly that he almost didn't hear Cas' response, and began following the moving figure by moonlight.

It was Dirk, and he not only walked toward the barn, he went in.

Dean hesitated. Then, slowly, he approached the barn door, which hung askew and slightly open. Clinging close to the wall, he peered as best he could into the building. All he could see was a familiar-looking point of orange light that moved up and down once as he watched.

Casting an apprehensive glance up at the roof, Dean stepped into the barn.

Dirk made a sudden move and swore. "Who the hell is that? Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. So this is why you sneak down here at night? To smoke?"

"Yeah. If you're gonna tell anyone, I don't care."

"I'm not gonna tell anyone." Dean looked around as best he could in the near-complete blackness; Dirk was apparently sitting on a chair, and there was no other sign that Dean could see that humans spent any time there. "I'd never cross a guy with the balls to share his smoking place with rabid bats."

Dirk laughed softly. "All there are in here is mice and 'possums. Sometimes an owl. I saw a fox coming out once just before I went in."

"Bet there weren't many 'possums for a while after that."

Dirk chuckled. He took another drag as Dean looked around.

Then, just as Dean took a breath to say something, Dirk said, "I was here. The night the Messenger was killed."

Dean leaned forward and peered to his left, out the barn door. The outline of the meeting hall was visible in the darkness, but just barely. "Did you hear anything?"

Dirk shook his head. There was a moment's silence.

"You'd think that'd make me quit."

"You mean – "

"Knowing I was here, and he was over there, and maybe if I'd been paying attention I could've – "

After another moment, Dean said, "I don't know what you could've done. They stabbed him in the throat first, probably exactly to keep him from yelling. After that, maybe a couple chairs turning over. I don't think anyone could hear that from here."

"Maybe if I'd been where I should've been, or noticed the light go on over there, instead of being holed up in here stewing about – "

Dirk showed no inclination to finish that, and Dean did it for him. "Gloria?"

Dirk looked up at him, took another drag, looked down at the ground.

"I mean, you two – it just seems like you get along pretty good."

"She's great," Dirk said. "She's been through a lot of crap. The Messenger probably saved her life."

Dean waited, then decided to plunge. "Did he figure she owed him for that?"

"He wasn't like that!" Dirk snapped.

He took another puff. "He wasn't like that."

"But if he had been – "

"You didn't know him. So shut up."

Dean backed off. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. Kinda put me off when I heard the thing about the three wives."

"If something puts you off, you need to ask someone about it. Get it clear in your head. We have enough enemies out there, we don't need any here."

"Whoa! I'm not an enemy."

Dirk was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, OK."

"I mean, you can have questions without being an enemy, can't you?"

"Sometimes you need to accept things. Not go stirring up discontent with questions."

"Like you accepted – "

"God, you're worse than the cops." Dirk jumped to his feet, and Dean braced.

But Dirk simply stepped outside, dropped his cigarette butt on a patch of bare dirt, and ground it out with his foot.

Dean followed. "Where do you hide the butts?"

"Bury 'em out back." Dirk huffed a laugh. "Clark found 'em once, waited out here to see who was coming down and smoking."

"Crap. What happened?"

"No big deal. I had to confess in front of everyone at the next meeting, wear a chain for a few days. I actually quit for a while."

As if trying to sound un-cop-like, Dean asked very casually, "So, uh, when'd you start again?"

Silence. Then Dirk said, "Actually, that night."

"Was there any – " Dean began, but then Dirk chuckled and said, "Don't tell anyone. Clark gave me the cigarettes."

"No way."

"Told me he appreciated how hard I worked at the Festival that day, and I deserved something for it. He just said, make sure you stay in the barn where no one will see the light, and don't tell anyone I gave 'em to you."

"What do you know."

"Yeah. I decided the stick up his butt isn't as big as I thought."

Dean laughed, even as his eye was caught by motion at the top of the hill – a blonde woman running from the trailer to the house.

"I'm gonna have one more," Dirk said. "Want one?"

"No, thanks. I'm gonna crash. See you tomorrow."

"See ya," Dirk said, and disappeared back into the barn.

Dean hustled across the grounds and up the slope, and was almost to the house when Jess came out the back door and ran the few steps to meet him.

"I should've guessed," she whispered breathlessly.

.

About the time that Dean had left his Probationer class, Jess had put down her paintbrush, blinked hard, and focused across the hall of the trailer to the classroom window that, from this angle, showed only stars. She and Betsy were sitting close together at the small table in the small room they were using for the dishes project. Freshly painted plates, saucers and bowls lay on every available surface; and still a stack sat, blank and white, mocking them.

Jess stretched her arms straight up – the only way she could stretch them in the confined space – and yawned. "You are incredible, Betsy. I don't know how we'd have ever done this without you working so hard on it. Casey didn't realize what she was getting us into."

"I've been grateful for the work," Betsy said quietly. "It's so calming. And it lets me focus on creating something, instead of on – destruction."

"That's why you decided to keep up the project even after Casey – even after it was decided that we'd all go to New Mexico?"

Betsy looked up from her work with a droll expression. "Yes. And you must admit, we could use new dishes."

"No kidding."

Betsy looked back down, focusing on the movement of her tiny brush. She said, "You can talk about it, you know. I mean, Nick communicating with Casey. I still don't really understand. But I didn't understand a lot of things when he was alive, and still I know that he was divinely inspired. And I know that he loved me."

Betsy turned the plate in her hand, seemingly unaware that Jess had stopped painting and was looking at her.

Then Jess said, "You were married to him, weren't you? You were his legal wife."

Betsy nodded without looking up.

"Why isn't your last name Munroe?"

Betsy smiled a little. "When we moved here to begin the movement, Nick changed his name to Munroe. That's his middle name, or was. He felt that if we tried to attract followers and had the same name, people would think of Lifeblood as a 'mom-and-pop' operation, as if one of the few followers he could attract was his own wife. We had so few members in the beginning. It was very hard – well, of course it still is hard to convince people to join a movement that spurns materialism."

"Why did you come here?"

"Nick was doing some work in Chicago. He believed in it, but it was frustrating. He was trying to help people, but just couldn't find a way to reach them. He was sitting in the living room worrying when I went to bed one night. When I woke up the next morning, he was still in the living room, but he was pacing and excited and alive. He told me that he'd had a revelation from God, that God had told us to go someplace where His message might be received better – a smaller town, a college town – and God would tell Nick what to do from there. We left in three days."

She put her paintbrush down and wiped sudden tears from her face.

"People – the Misled, sometimes even former members – people have tried to point out Nick's sins to me, as though, if he was imperfect, he was a complete hypocrite. They expect God's Messenger to be perfect. And of course," she laughed a little, wiping tears again, "he wasn't. He was a human being."

Jess looked away for a moment, clenched and unclenched her jaw, then looked back at Betsy. "I didn't realize that the two of you were married until just recently. You know, when I joined, both you and Casey were called Brides, and I just assumed that the Messenger had always had Brides. I just – I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Betsy smiled a little. "That's very thoughtful of you, Jessica. Thank you." Determinedly, she picked up the brush and went back to work.

"How could you bear it?"

"It was hard."

For a moment it seemed like that was all she would say. Then she sucked in a breath. "Oh, you know, the, the physical aspect of marriage – wasn't that important to me. I actually, I actually had – some problems with it. Nick was very patient and very sweet, but when Casey came along – In a way, I didn't blame him."

Jess shook her head, very slightly.

"And she was good for him, in a way, all that energy. What was good for Nick was good for Lifeblood, you know. At first I resented her ferociously, but after a while I realized that – my part of him, the trust he had in me, the way we could communicate, the way he made me feel safe – that was all still there. Casey brought out the side of him that made Lifeblood grow. She encouraged him to do what needed to be done. So when you came along, with your intelligence and the ideas you had, it didn't surprise me, really. I didn't blame you. And there was still that part of Nick that was all mine. And always will be."

With incredible casualness, Jess went back to painting as she said, "Still, it's really lucky that Clark happened to come by here that night. The night Nick died. A lot of people, the detectives especially, might have thought you had good reason to kill him."

"As if I would care what the damned Misled would think."

Betsy's tone was so sharp that Jess looked up, startled. "I could tell from the questions they asked me, the relentlessness, I could tell they thought I had some hand in it. Or that I might make a good scapegoat. They would have laid the blame on any of us if they could have. They were determined to prove that Lifeblood was corrupt and murderous. I would have given any of our members an alibi, I would have accepted an alibi from any of us, before I let any of us be in peril of being falsely accused."

After a moment, Jess began, "So did you – " but Betsy wasn't through, although her voice became calmer. "I understand that you want to have faith in people, even the Misled, Jess. You're very young, and you have a good heart, so you assume everyone can be saved. That was why you were against establishing the Damned status among the Misled. But you were wrong. Some of the Misled really are lost beyond redemption. Some of them are – terribly cruel, even while they show a shiny perfect surface to the world. Some of them really are damned."

Jess nodded, slowly.

"We need to protect ourselves from people like that. Reaching out to them poisons us with their filth. Nick understood that."

She blinked hard and focused on painting. "He understood a lot of things."

"He did."

After a moment, Jess took a breath. "After what you were saying, I feel terrible asking for this favor, but it keeps – I keep having the feeling that this is important, for some reason, and I was hoping that you could, could talk to Clark. On my behalf."

"What is it?"

"I wanted to be by myself in Nick's office. With his urn. I wanted to – commune with him, in a way, not like Casey, I don't think he'll speak to me, but just be there with what remains of him. It's – I know it's incredibly rude of me to ask this of you, but I asked Clark about it once, and he said no, and I was wondering if you could maybe speak to him on my behalf."

Betsy's expression was mildly puzzled. "Why do you need me to ask Clark about the office?"

"Well, he has the key."

Betsy smiled demurely and, even before she reached into her pocket for a keyring, Jess had closed her eyes with a Stupid-Me look. "Of course you have a key."

"Of course I have a key." Delicately, she was freeing it from the ring. "I was the only one that Nick would allow in his office without his being there."

She extended the key.

"Do you – mind?" Jess asked, as if in spite of herself.

Betsy smiled. "It's just his ashes."

"I was planning on going to bed now, since I get up at four. Would you mind if I kept this until tomorrow?"

"No. I don't go into the office much now. The urn makes me so sad. Dishes – well, food is for living people."

Jess stood, and then quickly, as if on impulse, leaned forward and kissed the top of Betsy's head. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Sleep well."

Jess kept to a normal pace walking to the trailer door, but the moment she was outside she ran for the house's front door.

She tried to walk in casually, though. To her left, Sue-Ann was sitting in the formal living room reading a Bible. "Did Dean go on downstairs, do you know?" Jess asked.

"I don't know. He might have taken a walk. He does that before the Night Bell."

"Of course. Well, I'll catch him sometime," Jess said airily, and strolled down the hall.

She checked the kitchen and dining room quickly, then looked out the back door. She saw Dean coming up the slope and ran to meet him.

"I should've guessed," she said. "Betsy has a key to the office. She loaned it to me."

"Well done, Jess!"

"I don't think we should go in right now, though."

"With Eagle-Ears Sue-Ann about to wash up and get ready for bed right next door? No."

"I'll think of something that I need your help on and I'll leave a note tomorrow before I go to Baked. By the time I'm back, almost everyone will be out doing mission work. We can search the office then, and take whatever we find to the police at five-thirty."

"You know, Jess – I know you think we're going to find something crucial, but remember – "

" – the Sheriff's detectives will have taken anything crucial with them. I know. I'll bet you a quarter we find something that points to a specific person as the one who killed Nick."

"Betting? Sin's running rampant around this place. Dirk's down in the barn smoking as we speak."

"He started that again?"

"And Clark bought him cigarettes once."

"Oh, he did not!"

"According to Dirk. Dirk reports that the stick up Clark's butt isn't as big as previously thought."

Jess giggled, then looked around.

"There was something – " Dean began with a puzzled look, then shrugged. "Too much stuff in my head. I'll remember later."

"I'm half-wacky myself. I've got to get some sleep. We'll get into the office about 10:30 tomorrow."

Dean put a hand on her arm as she turned to go back to the house. "Keep in mind, Jess – if we do find something that clears most of your friends, it'll be because it incriminates two of them."

She nodded. "I'm focusing on the people who'll be cleared. Dean – "

It almost sounded like she wouldn't finish, and he tipped his head.

"I hope it's not Betsy," she whispered.

He took a breath as if he were going to say something more complex, but all he said was, "I hope not too."

They walked back up the dark hill to the house.

.

Of course there was a crisis at the bakery next day, and of course Jess was held up. By the time Dean could secretly box up his stuff, someone had taken the only car that wasn't out on work obtaining donations, apparently to go and pick up Jess. Dean put his box in the library, where it blended with the other boxes, then hung around the house, trying to look like he had a project going.

But once Jess was driven back, they were in luck. Max, who drove her, joined the people packing up the trailer's storage rooms. Others were out of the house doing chores or on "mission" work. There was a low murmur of conversation coming from the Brides' bedroom, but the door was closed, and they slipped into the office unnoticed.

Jess shut and locked the door behind them as Dean looked around. A desk of heavy dark wood, old and worn but impressive, sat with its back to the window; the blinds were drawn. A computer monitor sat on the desk, and a desktop printer sat on a short squat safe nearby. There were a couple of filing cabinets and an elegant cupboard, where Nick's urn reposed in front of a mirror on top and a locked glass case below revealed bottles of alcohol and glasses.

Jess immediately went to the wall between the desk and the urn-liquor cabinet, where there were three tall sets of bookshelves, almost full. Even from just a week's worth of Probationer classes, Dean knew that a lot of these books were deemed Corrupted Literature by Lifeblood, not so much because they were sexual – although several of them were – as because they were agnostic or opinionated.

Dean, looking back at the safe, shook his head. Surely that would have been the first thing the police told Clark to open.

"Only money in the safe," Jess said softly.

"What?"

"Nick told me once, 'I keep only money in the safe. When the Misled authorities come for us, it'll be the first place they look.'"

Dean sounded amused, though he too kept his voice down. "He thought the top-secret documents would be safer in his desk?"

Jess laid her hand on a set of law books that filled four shelves. "I think he thought they'd be safer here."

Dean looked at them more closely. They were all a uniform pleasant green with gold lettering on the spines. Each read, "West's Missouri Digest" at the top and gave law categories underneath: "Banks And Banking to Burglary" and "Clerks Of Courts to Conspiracy" were typical.

"He was gonna fight Kansas authorities with Missouri law books?"

Jess laughed softly. "He used to ask us to get these for him if we ran across one or two when we were in Kansas City. You find them sometimes when law firms are updating, or at estate sales or antique stores. He didn't care if he had a complete set or even all from one year. He told us they were for show, that they made the library look impressive."

"They kind of do."

Jess nodded, and made a sweeping gesture encompassing the whole wall. "If you were going to search a library for hidden documents, how would you do it?"

Looking suspiciously at her, Dean pulled out a volume titled simply, "Evidence." He held it upside down and flipped the pages, shook the book thoroughly, put his hand into the space behind the books on the shelves, and finding nothing, put the book back and shrugged.

With a smile, Jess took one of the digests off the shelf and opened the back cover, showing it to Dean. A flap covered about three-fourths of the inside back tightly, attached as part of the book's binding.

"I got a few of these one time, and they all had little brochures in the back. They're updates to the laws. The paper is very thin, but the back cover is thicker, kind of like file-folder paper. You stick the back cover under the flap and that way the updates stay with the book, until a new update comes out, or a new edition of the book."

She took the book over to the desk and looked over the desktop. "One of my chores that day was gathering up the trash and taking it out, and I noticed he'd thrown out the updates. I wondered at the time, why bother to throw them out if the books are just for show?"

She picked up a letter opener, a self-confident smile on her face, and slid it into the paper-thin pocket. "And I always wondered – "

Her jaw dropped and her eyes flew open. Dean smothered a laugh. She'd seemed so sure that she'd find something, and she was flabbergasted when she actually found it.

With the letter opener, she pulled two pieces of paper, each folded in quarters, out of the book flap. Each page was headed "Promissory Note," and each was signed by Dirk.

Jess scanned one of them quickly as Dean looked over the other. "It looks like – he couldn't afford to pay his Primary Tithe," she said, and glanced over at the other note. "Or Secondary. He promises to pay with interest – but I don't see a date – "

"'Upon demand by the Board of Directors of Lifeblood, Inc.,'" Dean read, pointing to the phrase.

"I think it means that if we make the demand and he didn't pay, we could sue him."

"I think so too," Dean said, folding both pages and sticking them in the back pocket of his jeans.

"Dean – "

"You know what this is for, Jess. It's to threaten Dirk with if he ever tried to do anything Nick or the Council didn't want him to."

Jess sighed and nodded. She put the book back as Dean found another letter opener, and they both went to work.

Neither found anything for a couple of minutes. Then Jess said, "Oh. Well."

Dean looked over. Jess was holding a photograph of Casey, topless, with a sultry smile. Her head was tipped and her long black hair spilled down one side of her head and breast, revealing the clean beautiful line of her neck and shoulder on the other side.

Jess turned the photo over. "Nick – Thinking of You," was written on the back.

"Nice," Dean said. "But I don't see it as a murder motive. It's not like everyone didn't already know."

"I wonder why he hid it?" Jess said. "He let Betsy come in here by herself – maybe he was hiding it from her?"

"Why bother?"

"The more I know, the more I think Nick had a weird – contradictory feeling about Betsy."

"Sue-Ann thinks he wanted Betsy around because she knew him better than anyone else. Here's something."

Dean slid a small safe deposit key out of the back of a volume titled "Banks And Banking to Burglary."

"Does Lifeblood have a safe deposit box?" he asked.

"I don't know. If we do, they got it before I came on board."

"Whose name is on the bank account?"

"On the checking account, Nick was, of course, and Betsy and Clark. I think it's the same for the money market account and the CDs. The Council passed a resolution yesterday to put Casey on the accounts."

"Communing with the Messenger has tangible rewards."

"Well, it's not like she's going to run off with our money, Dean. Even if she wanted to, any amount over two hundred fifty dollars requires two signatures on the check. That's why Clark suggested Casey – if we needed money urgently and either Betsy or Clark was unavailable, we'd be out of luck."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Personally, if I had a big bank account, I'd rather have you signing on it than Casey, but – So, if the safe deposit box is Nick's personally, what would you guess?"

"No idea. But it might have our murder motive."

"Except that the Sheriff's office has probably already looked over Nick's and Lifeblood's bank accounts, maybe even drilled the box if they couldn't find the key."

"It makes me nervous to give it to anyone here, though, just in case it's evidence – "

" – and they make it go away. Right."

"I'll give it to the detectives tonight," Jess said, putting the key in one of the two capacious pockets of her skirt. "If they say, oh, we already knew about that, no harm done."

They resumed their search, and a minute later Dean said, "Wooa."

He was looking at a poem, carefully hand-written in black ink on rich cream-colored paper.

_No, sin is not in the beholder's eye._

_It's absolute, objective; Judgment's knell_

_Will toll for those who dare to climb the tower_

_And mock perdition, tearing down its bell._

_The imperfection at your waist I kissed_

_Perfected my rebellion, and I fell._

_Descent into your warm and moving flesh_

_Meant rising on a Stygian tidal swell_

_To view them all, the holy and the damned,_

_As chilly chattering creatures in a cell._

_Our passion, reigning over darkness' realm,_

_Will burn more brightly than the flames of Hell._

"Wow," Jess said. Then she sucked in a breath. "That's Clark's handwriting."

"And whose," Dean asked, pointing at a scrawled line at the bottom of the page, "is that?"

The line, in a very different careless writing, read:

ONE OR THE OTHER, "FRIEND"

"That's Nick's. He gave me a note once, after I disagreed with him on the Damned Misled issue. He wasn't supposed to communicate with me, of course, but he was really angry. And a lot of the note looked like that."

"What – did I tell you?" Dean said, suddenly remembering to lower his voice. "Clark's gay. He was having a thing with Nick, and cheated on – "

"Oh he was not either, Dean! I would have known!"

"Then what does 'One or the other' mean?"

"I don't know, but – "

As Jess shook her head, Dean suddenly chortled. "I'm going home tonight, so you get stuck with figuring out who has an imperfection at their waist. Maybe you can say that – "

"Casey."

Dean looked at her sharply. "Yeah?"

"She has a birthmark on her hip, right here," and she pointed to a spot just below her waistline.

"He was banging a Bride of the Messenger?"

"That's what 'One or the other' means." The words raced each other out of Jess' mouth. "Not between two people. Between Casey and Lifeblood. That's why we were going to leave Clark behind to start the Lawrence chapter all over again. He gave Clark a choice, Casey or staying in Lifeblood."

"And he picked Lifeblood?"

"No. I think they picked Door Number Three."

"Kill the Messenger," Dean said, and couldn't resist the smile that flicked across his face.

"In a way, it makes sense," Jess said. She took the poem from Dean and looked it over as she said, "They've been smart about it. If they acted like they hated each other, everyone would say they protest too much. So they just acted like they didn't have much use for each other."

"Casey told me that Clark was the kind of guy who just couldn't step up to the plate."

"Clark told me she brought him into Lifeblood. She was looking for a lawyer to handle a tax thing for us. Later he said that one hour changed his life, and supposedly he was talking about meeting Nick, but I have the feeling he was thinking about one hour – "

"Yeah," Dean said with a grin. "You remember I told you that Sam found out about Clark having an affair with a client, taking her money?" He tapped the paper. "Clark wrote her poems. But how did Nick get a hold of this?"

"He must have suspected something and done a spot check of Casey's property. He got furious, wrote that on the poem, and – " Jess rolled her eyes a bit – "I can see him doing this – called Clark into his office and slammed it down on the desk in front of him."

"Hard to talk your way out of a hot poem in your own handwriting hidden in a girl's personal stuff."

"So then Clark either said, Sure, I'll stay behind, you can have Casey, or he said let me think about it. Then he and Casey talked – "

"And decided, Screw this noise, let's kill the SOB."

"Exactly."

"But let's slow down a moment," Dean said. "I mean, sure, on a TV show it would be a good reason to kill somebody. But wouldn't it just be easier to leave and start their own cul – uh, spiritual movement?"

"Oh, no. It took Nick several years to get Lifeblood to the point where it is now. I mean – " she gestured – "Heartland doesn't look like much, but it's a lot of real estate, and our finances are healthy enough that we could get a loan to buy a big tract in New Mexico. We have contributors all over the country. Casey's been here for a while, so she'd know it wasn't easy, and Nick was the – "

She broke off, sighed shakily, and continued quietly. "People thought he was the Messenger of God. Lifeblood members wouldn't follow a couple of people who just walked away from the Messenger. Clark and Casey would have to start from scratch."

"And the way Nick has it planned, Clark spent a year sucking up to him and winds up stuck in an old house in Lawrence by himself, and Casey spent a couple years, well, doing her thing, and she can't even get him to divorce his original wife. With Nick out of the way – "

" – and Casey saying that she's speaking for the Messenger – "

" – they can have everything – the followers, the money, the real estate. Sue-Ann thinks that Clark's the leader Lifeblood needs, and the three of them could outvote you and Betsy on expenses, doctrines, possessions, anything."

"And if Sue-Ann starts getting disillusioned, they could promote more people to the Council who'd vote their way." Jess put the poem on the desk and the book back in place. Then she made a little sound and pointed at the spine, which read, "Seduction to Sentencing And Punishment."

"I just realized what was nagging at me last night," Dean said. "The night of Nick's murder? Everyone was where they were because of either Clark or Casey. The Accepters were in a class that Casey called for. You were off the property getting paint that Casey asked you to buy. Betsy was in the trailer designing plates that Casey bought and asked her to start on. Sue-Ann was by herself, doing the library inventory Clark asked her to do that day. Dirk was down in the barn smoking cigarettes that Clark bought for him. Everyone was either giving Casey an alibi or set up so they didn't have an alibi themselves. Sue-Ann was even on the side of the house that looks out the front, to the road, and Betsy was on that side of the trailer. No way they'd have seen anything hinky."

"The classroom looks out over the meeting hall, though."

"Only if you're facing the class, looking out the window. If you're in the classroom chairs, facing the chalkboard, your back's to the window. The first night I was here, I was standing where Casey stands when the light came on down by the meeting hall. I saw it, but the meeting hall's far enough away that if you were facing away you wouldn't notice it. Especially if you're dead tired from working at a festival all day, drowsy, staring at a spot on the board, chanting the same thing over and over. Casey saw the light go on, saw Nick go into the meeting house, told everyone to stare at the board and chant, excused herself to go to the bathroom, and ran down to help Clark clean up blood." Dean grinned briefly. "If Eve hadn't been ticked off enough to do the counting thing, and hadn't been willing to tell you about it, we'd never have had any idea how long Casey was gone. She could've said two minutes, no one would've known better."

"So we know that Casey was in the classroom except for four minutes, which would've given her time to help Clark clean up. But Clark was with Betsy. Anyway, that's what they said."

"Would Betsy lie to give Clark an alibi?"

"She as much as told me she would, last night," Jess said. "I didn't realize how violently she despises the Misled. She's convinced that one of them killed Nick, and that the Misled authorities want to frame someone innocent from Lifeblood." Jess picked up the poem, folding it slowly. "If she saw evidence that Clark isn't just a, a religious innocent – "

"But her giving Clark an alibi would have to mean that she knew about it in advance. The police separated you all so you couldn't do things like set up alibis with each other, right?"

Jess sighed. "Damn. I didn't want – Oh!"

Her eyes flew open, then closed. "I was on the floor, giving Nick CPR. Clark was applying pressure to his wounds, shouting at Rosco to go up to the road and flag down the ambulance. Dirk was crying and praying. Betsy was hysterical, getting in our way. And Casey – " Jess' eyes opened – "pulled Betsy outside."

"And said something like, Clark's been sitting alone in his room all night – "

"Maybe Nick will live, but whatever happens, the police will try to make it look like one of us attacked him. You need an alibi, Clark needs an alibi. Just tell them he came by and talked to you for an hour."

"She could even tell Betsy not to bother trying to make up a conversation. She could say, Just tell the police you don't remember anything, you're in shock, but you know that Clark was talking to you for an hour before you heard –"

There was a metallic click, the sound of a doorknob turning, and Clark walked into the room.


	8. Chapter 8

"The urn's over there, Jess," Clark said, closed the door and walked toward them.

Instinctively, Dean stepped in front of Jess, and Jess took advantage of that to put the poem in one of her pockets.

Clark gave Dean a scornful look meant to wither any melodrama. Then he looked over Dean's shoulder at Jess and extended his hand. "I'd like to have what you just stole and put in your pocket."

Jess put her hand in her pocket, and gave Clark the office key. "I didn't steal it. Betsy loaned it to me."

"Yes. She told me after breakfast about the nice talk you had last night. How you said that we were so lucky to have each other as an alibi. And she chided me for not letting you in the office."

"That's on me, Clark," Dean said. "I think you guys are great, but I never knew Nick Munroe, and I was kind of scoffing at the idea of him talking directly to God. She brought me in here to tell me about the guy, show me the kind of guy he was."

"I did want to commune with Nick's spirit," Jess said. "But I felt like this was almost the same, talking about him with a Probationer who might be tempted back to the Misled."

"Or you just came in here to search the office for something," Clark said. "I don't know, Jess. There have just been so many of these incidents lately. Trying to convince Nick that homosexuality is natural. The rebellion that got you punished. You simply told Rosco that you were counseling Dean, and never asked Casey, who brought him here, if she thought that should be her job. Going behind my back after I specifically told you the Messenger wouldn't approve of your being here, and getting the key from a vulnerable, depressed – terribly depressed – woman who's not thinking straight. I think you've lost your commitment to our movement."

"I haven't."

"I think you have, Jess. I think you need to leave Heartland."

Dean began, "Hey, that's way over – " and was interrupted by Jess, who squared off with Clark, breathing fast. "You can't throw me out just because you want to, Clark. There has to be a vote of the Council."

"No, Jess, you're going to resign from Lifeblood. Your friend may think he's figured something out, but you and I both know who killed Nick, and if you don't leave Heartland now, the Sheriff will know too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jess asked, but Clark was going to the filing cabinet near the desk and opening a drawer. Dean and Jess exchanged a baffled look. Then Clark turned with a piece of paper in his hand and said, "Jess, you may want to come over here to look at this. I don't know if you want anyone else to see it."

Jess went behind the desk, looking at the paper, while Dean stared across the desk at Clark with a death-ray glare.

Jess looked the paper over with widening eyes, then snatched it out of Clark's hand.

Clark shrugged. "Take it. It's a copy. The original is in the safe. Nick was still deciding what to do about it when he died. But I know what to do. It will be sent to the Sheriff's office if you and Dean don't leave Heartland now, and I mean this minute."

Jess said nothing, staring at the paper in her hand. Dean said, "We can't leave this minute. Neither of us has a car, remember? And we both have stuff to pack. Jess is – "

"I'll drive you into town. I'll have your and Jess' property sent to you. Casey knows your ex-boyfriend's address, doesn't she? We'll send it there." Clark gripped Jess' arm. "Let's go."

"This is bull. Jess, what is that?"

"She can tell you about it later, if she wants to. Jess? Are you resigning, or is the Sheriff's office notified?"

She stood still for a moment, staring at the paper. Then she set her jaw, stuffed the paper in her pocket, and looked up at Clark. "I resign, you bastard."

"Resignation accepted." He pulled her out from behind the desk and started across the room.

Dean stood in their way. "I've got an idea, Clark. Why don't you grab my arm that way. See what happens."

Clark gave him a look of utter contempt. But he let go of Jess' arm.

There was no one in the front rooms of the first floor, although behind them they could hear clinking of dishes and cutlery in the kitchen that meant lunch was being prepared. One of Lifeblood's cars was in the drive; as they reached it, Clark turned and handed the keys to Jess. "You drive, Jess. Dean and I will sit in back. I don't think either of us wants the other one behind him."

She took the keys and got into the driver's seat without demur. Dean, perhaps acknowledging the truth of Clark's assertion, walked around the car and got in the back.

Jess drove for about five minutes. Gravel ground and popped under the tires, filling the car with a low roar. Everyone in the car was silent. They got onto paved road shortly before Jess took a long on-ramp to the highway. When they'd been on the highway for about two minutes, Clark said, "Pull over and stop the car."

Dean looked around. Even though it was Saturday, there wasn't much traffic on the highway, and although they were close to Lawrence, at the moment nothing was visible but rolling hills. "Clark, if you try anything, you'll regret it. I mean that."

"You're the one who tried something. Don't complain to me because there are consequences. Jess, pull over and stop. I won't say it again."

Jess pulled over on the shoulder and stopped the car. Clark got out, looking up and down the road, and Dean lunged out the same door after him.

Clark opened the driver's door. "The keys, please."

Jess handed them to him.

"Your keys to the house and meeting hall and the bakery, too."

She dug her keyring out of one of her pockets and handed it over.

"And your pendant."

Jess took a deep breath, bit her lips, and began unfastening the chain. A car shot past them, the driver swerving exaggeratedly around the open door and honking. Jess handed the pendant to Clark.

"Out," he said, and Jess got out. Clark shut the back door as Dean dodged aside, and got into the driver's seat.

"You're a total jerk, Clark," Dean said informatively.

Clark slammed the driver's door and started the car as if he would ignore that. Then he looked up at Dean. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don't think it's worth wasting gasoline on a pair of Misled who rifle through a dead man's property and take advantage of a depressed widow who only has a damn set of dishes to live for."

He drove off. Up ahead, he made a U-turn on one of the flat patches across the median, and headed back in the direction they'd come from.

Dean said one colorful noun, looking back at the car. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, pressed a number, lifted the phone to his ear, and swore again. "I forgot. Cas has his phone off."

He pressed the next number down, lifted the phone, and this time smiled. "Sam! How'd you like to save your brother some time and shoe leather? Clark just kicked Jess and me out of Lifeblood and stranded us on the side of Highway 10. Yeah, that's what I said too. She's OK. We'll tell you the whole thing later. Meantime, can you come pick us up? We're about four miles east of town on the shoulder of Highway 10. We'll start walking toward town, and we'll see you when we see you. Thanks. Yeah, you can bring the Impala, if you're really closer to the apartment than to Schuyler." He disconnected. "He's not. He just wants to drive the Impala."

Jess was staring at the dirty gray road shoulder beneath their feet. A cool late-September breeze wafted through the warm sunny day.

"Jess?"

She looked up.

"If it's real private I understand, but I'd like to know about that piece of paper."

She nodded, dug it out of her pocket, and handed it to Dean. It was one page, hand-written, addressed to Nick at Lifeblood's post office box address.

_To Nick Munroe:_

_I am the father of Jessica Moore. I haven't seen my daughter in six months. If you're a father, and you're not just the sociopath you seem to be, you might understand what that would feel like. If you're not a father, you should still understand how important the bond is that a parent has with his child._

_Jessica called us yesterday to invite us to come to Lawrence and meet you. When we said that we'd rather spend family time alone with her, she became insulting and hysterical. She said that your group is her family now. You know that's a lie._

_If you don't release my daughter from whatever vows or brainwashing you pulled her into, and send her home, I will make your life a living hell. As a CPA, I will find a way to break your group's tax-exempt status. Then I'll see to it that every cent you're spending on yourself is taken for taxes. I'll have every inch of your property examined by the relevant inspectors and have you fined until you're broke or the property is condemned. I'll have investigators look into your personal life and I'll make sure Jessica and everyone else knows about it. I'll make sure that you never get to New Mexico._

_You might laugh about this, but you should believe that I am serious. If my daughter doesn't come home within a week, you will pay for all the children you've ever taken away from their parents. You will pay personally._

_Al Moore_

Dean let out a long low whistle. Then he looked at Jess. "What do you think?"

"I don't – there are so many things. They're all jammed together in my head."

"Well, just start talking. Maybe that'll clarify it for you."

She shook her head in a dazed way. "He threatened the man I was living with! He threatened anyone! Dad doesn't threaten – but it sounds like him, you know. So organized. First I'll get the IRS on your case, then I'll take your property, then I'll shame you, then you won't get to New Mexico – What does that mean, anyway? Why would he – Is this my fault? Did Dad – "

"No," Dean said quietly, but she was rushing on. " — kill someone because he thought his perfect daughter was disgraced or brainwashed or something? I can't believe it. I cannot see Dad stabbing – How would he get the knife? It can't be. But God, Dean, it sounds so bad. If Clark did send that letter to the detectives, it would be – But you know, he was probably at home with Mom. No, they wouldn't consider her a good alibi. Maybe he does have a good alibi. We have to call him." She looked up at Dean.

"Well – actually, no he doesn't. Sam asked your dad – "

"Sam? Was investigating my father?"

"I asked him to, Jess. He, well, he makes a pretty good suspect, you have to admit. Less than an hour away, and the way he's resented Lifeblood."

"Lots of us have relatives who resent Lifeblood. Did Sam talk to all of them?"

"Your dad's the only one we know personally. Anyway, Sam asked him about the night of the murder. You mom and dad had a fight, and he spent the night at a hotel."

Jess stared at him. "He's never done that before. What were they fighting about?"

"Well, Jess, Sam doesn't usually go around asking people about the details of their personal lives. He just wanted to know where your dad was, and he found out. Your parents made up the next day, though. They're OK now."

Jess put both hands on her head for a moment, as if her brain were in danger of flying out. "So – Dad sends a threatening letter to Nick, then he and Mom have a fight, Dad drops off the grid, and the next morning Nick's dead and Dad's back with Mom. God, Dean. That just sounds awful."

"It does."

"If we tell the Sheriff's office about the knife, and the poem, they'll start asking questions at Heartland that they weren't asking before, and Clark will send that letter to the Sheriff for sure. Dean – you don't think Dad really – "

"Well, Jess, you know him better than I do. I mean, sometimes people shock their families, but – What do you think?"

She actually seemed to be trying to envision her father committing premeditated murder. Then she shook her head. "I just don't see it. The weird thing is, I can see him getting angry enough to find a knife. He's one of those slow-burning people, it's really hard to get him truly angry, but if you do, look out. But Dean, I just don't see him stabbing someone over and over, letting them strangle on blood. He hates suffering, he hates it when people suffer. I can see him coming this close and then saying, no, I'm not that kind of guy."

Dean smiled and nodded, then tried not to look as if she'd just echoed something he knew Al had said. "Yeah. Between 'I'm gonna sic the IRS on you, you SOB' and 'Everyone else is just chattering creatures compared to me,' I know who I think sounds like a killer."

"But I really want to talk to Dad calmly before we go to the Sheriff's office. Is that OK with you?"

"Sure. When Sam picks us up, we'll go back to the apartment. Unless you want to call him from here."

"No, I'm too scrambled right now. By the time we get to your apartment – "

She went silent suddenly. Then, "No, Dean, I've disrupted your life enough. If you guys will take me to McCollum, my old dorm, I've got a friend there, a Resident Assistant. She'd be willing to put me up for a little and give me a chance to think – away from everything. Wash my face. Maybe she'll have a top she can loan me. By the time we get to the Sheriff's office, this one's going to be pretty gross."

Dean chuckled, just as a truck pulled up alongside them. The driver, a young man wearing a KU T-shirt, rolled down the passenger-side window and called, "You two need any help?"

"No thanks," Dean said cheerfully. "We've got someone coming."

"OK," and the driver pulled away.

"Let's get started," Dean said, beginning to walk along the shoulder. "The closer we get to town, the sooner we see the Impala."

"Oh, and your brother," Jess said with a small smile.

"Yeah, him too."

About 15 minutes later, Dean saw the black car pelting toward them on the opposite side of the road. Sam had to drive past them to get to a spot on the highway where he could cross the median, but then he came roaring back past them, the tires barking sharply as they crossed the warning ruts cut into the shoulder, kicking up dust and leaves as he braked.

Looking repressive, Dean went to the driver's door as Sam opened it, grinning. "Nice ride."

"Thank you very much," Dean said. "Out."

Still grinning, Sam hopped out, then sobered as he saw Jess, who was heading toward the back door on the non-highway side of the car. He walked quickly round the front of the car and opened the door for her. "Are you OK, Jess?"

She parted her lips, closed them. "Sam, my head's so scrambled I don't even know if I'm OK or not."

"I've been there," he said, and closed the door after she got in. He took shotgun, and they pulled back onto the highway.

Upon hearing where they were headed, Sam manned his cell phone and tracked down Jess' friend, to be sure she was at the dorm and that they wouldn't just be dumping Jess on Daisy Hill with no place for her to go. The friend was indeed at home, very startled to hear from Jess but happy to take her in.

With that settled, Dean began to tell Sam what had happened that day. Jess sat silent in the back seat, leaning her head against the window, occasionally brushing tears off of her face. She handed Sam the poem and the copy of her father's letter at the appropriate points of the story, taking them back after he'd finished gaping at them.

Jess' friend was waiting for her when they pulled up to McCollum, sitting on a bench and reading an ebook. She must have understood something from Jess' tone during the call, because no sooner had Jess closed the car door than she was wrapped in a big hug.

"OK," Dean said, starting down the drive that ran past the other big brick Daisy Hill dorms. "Hope she remembers to eat something. God, I'm hungry. Have you had lunch?"

"No."

"Want to have a burger? Or maybe Mexican. I want something salty and fatty. Friggin' rabbit food at Heartland."

"Sounds good. A burger, I mean."

"Then I'll drop you at Schuyler, then I'm gonna go home and shower and see Cas and take a nap in my own bed. Paradise, man. Then I've gotta get back in touch with Jess about going to the Sheriff's office."

"When you were telling me about the letter, it sounded like you didn't tell Jess her dad was in Lawrence."

"No, or anything about the deprogramming. She said, 'How would he get the knife?' Uh, well, Jess, he was near the bakery with his buddies all day, maybe he saw you leave and snuck in."

"Although really, I think that's an argument against it being Mr. Moore," Sam said. "Even if he was crazy enough to kill somebody, is he the kind of whackdoodle who'd frame his own daughter? No."

"But does the Sheriff's office know that? No."

Dean stopped at a red light and became so lost in thought that it required the car behind him honking as Sam said, "Yo," before he realized the light had changed.

"I think I'm getting an idea how we could get Clark and Casey to incriminate themselves. That way, maybe Al's being in Lawrence that day might not even have to come out."

Sam gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "Oh, fine. This from the guy who not eighteen months ago told me, 'Let the police handle it! It's not your job!'"

"This is different."

"How?"

"Well, for one thing, we know someone who might get framed by the criminals. And for another, we know the criminals. You know, I really liked Casey when I just knew her from the bakery, but the closer you get to her, the colder you realize she is. And Clark's just unbelievable. Basically telling Jess that if she didn't resign from Lifeblood, he'd get her father arrested for murder. And then acting all humanitarian, going on and on about how evil Jess was for borrowing that key from Betsy, taking advantage of her depression. Literally, the last thing he said to Jess – after he took away her pendant – was about rifling through a dead man's stuff and taking advantage of a depressed woman who has nothing to live for but dishes. This from a guy who listened to his victim strangling – "

"He said that twice?" Sam interrupted.

"Said what?"

"The thing about Betsy being depressed?"

"Yeah, once in the office and once right as he dumped us."

"Betsy's his only alibi, isn't she?"

Dean jerked his head around, stared at Sam, looked back at the road, made a sudden right turn onto a side street, and stopped the car. "You're thinking – "

"I'm thinking that if Clark's safety hangs on Betsy's lie, Betsy's a liability, and there might be a reason why he's saying over and over how depressed and miserable she is."

"If Betsy sees something or hears something, like that poem, or the detectives manage to convince her that Clark's a killer – "

"It's pretty obvious by now that Clark and Casey gain from Nick's death," Sam said. "If she recants her alibi of Clark – "

" — he's dead. But if Betsy never gets the chance, he's safe."

"Are they – " Sam gestured vaguely. "Who knows. But can you see them killing someone else so soon after the first murder?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said. "As a matter of fact, the sooner the better. If they're going to try to make it look like suicide because she's so depressed about Nick's death. They've probably been planting that in everyone's mind, not just mine and Jess's."

He checked the street and pulled out.

"Where are you going?"

"The bakery. Betsy works there late mornings. There'll only be one other Lifeblood member there, and maybe I can talk to her. Even if she doesn't believe me, at least she'll have a warning if Clark asks her to go for a walk on a high cliff."

Sam's mouth quirked. "A high cliff where? Denver?"

"You know what I mean."

Five minutes later, three of which Dean spent cursing Massachusetts Street weekend traffic in a continuous mumble, they found a parking spot a block from the bakery. "Call if you need me," Sam said, and Dean set off down the sidewalk, startling the shopping college students with his grim expression.

He put a smile on his face and restrained himself from banging open the bakery door. Gloria was at the counter, boxing up a pie for a middle-aged woman. She looked surprised when Dean walked in, then finished the customer's business as fast as she could.

"Hi, Gloria," Dean began as the customer left, but she interrupted with, "Is everything OK?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Betsy hasn't come in yet. I mean, it's kind of flexible what time she comes in, because Jess usually has us pretty well set up through the noon hour, but she's always here by now. I thought maybe you came in to tell me where she is."

"No. Did you try calling Heartland?"

She nodded. "The phone goes to voicemail."

"Crap," Dean said with such fervor that Gloria looked unnerved. He started for the door, then turned back. "Do you have a pencil?"

He wrote and circled a phone number on a Baked flier as Gloria said, "Dean, what's going on?"

"Probably nothing. But here." He gave Gloria the flier. "If Betsy comes in, would you have her call me?"

"You have a phone?"

He hesitated. "Long story. Tell you later. But if Betsy comes in, for sure have her call, all right? It's important, Gloria."

"OK. I will."

He ran back to the Impala. Sam, seeing his speed and facial expression, fastened his seatbelt before Dean plunged into the driver's seat. "Not there?"

"Not there. And Clark's cell phone goes to voicemail."

"Crap," Sam said, as Dean, catching a break in the traffic, backed out of their space.

It seemed to take forever to get out of town, but the Impala flew once they got to the highway. When they'd reached and had been driving the gravel road for a couple of minutes, Sam said, "Look, chances are that she's fine, maybe upset about you and Jess being kicked out, and she's trying to talk Clark out of it. In which case, how do we find her? Or get a chance to talk to her?"

"Good question." Dean thought for a moment, then chortled. "I just got a vision of me yelling 'Clark's gonna kill you, I'm telling you!' while Dirk and Rosco drag me out the door. Not real convincing. I'd really like to pull her off somewhere, show her the poem, get a chance to talk to her alone. How do we do that?"

A few seconds and a roadside thread of wild sunflowers went by. Then Sam said, "Jess. She's hysterical about being kicked out of Lifeblood, inconsolable, we're – you're afraid she might hurt herself."

"And Betsy's the only one she'll talk to. That's good. If anything will get Betsy to leave, that's it."

"Keep in mind, even if you get her away, she might just say, You're full of it and take me home."

"Well, at least we'll have done our best. OK, this is it." Dean pulled into the drive and stopped the car. "I'm gonna go in by myself. If they see a Misled stranger, they're apt to start screaming bloody murder. Literally. If she's not in the house, I'll go looking. If I need help, I'll call."

"My phone's on," Sam said, and tried to slouch down and look inconspicuous – no easy task for him.

Fortunately, the front door was unlocked as usual during the daytime. Dean shot a quick glance right – the only person in the library/tech room was Max, who never looked up from his computer screen – and left. The formal living room was empty, but he checked the lavatory next to it. That was empty too.

The whole time he could hear voices from the dining room, where they were about halfway through lunch. He hesitated, then looked into the kitchen. Sue-Ann, her back turned to him, was scrubbing a pan at the sink. She was the only one there. He had to look into the dining room.

Dirk, Rosco and Eve were sitting at the dining room table. Dirk waved. Eve said, "Dean! Where have you been?"

Obviously Clark hadn't told everyone about his banishment yet. That would make moving around easier. "Doing stuff for Jess. Hey, where's Betsy?"

"At the bakery," Eve said. "Every day, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, duh," Dean said. "OK. See ya."

He ran up the stairs. Just as he got to the top he heard a click – the office door locking. He looked around the hallway, then headed for the door of the Brides' bedroom.

He almost ran into Casey, who was coming out the door wearing a sweater and carrying a purse.

She stared at him in shock for a moment, and in that instant he looked over her shoulder. The Brides' room was empty.

"What the hell are you doing here?'

Dean raised his hands. "Not trying to cause any trouble. I just want to talk to Betsy."

She blinked, hard. "Why?"

"Jess wants me to tell her something. You know where she is?"

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you. Clark had to tell her about Jess's resignation and your being removed. She was so upset, on top of her depression, I don't know what she might do."

Dean met her gaze for a moment.

Then he pushed her aside and went into the bedroom, looking behind furniture and calling. "Betsy?"

"Are you crazy? Get out or I'll call – "

"The police, yeah, why don't you? Betsy!"

He went through the connecting door to the master bedroom. Casey fled. He looked behind and even under the king-size bed, and was straightening up when he noticed a liquor bottle, a glass with a little amber liquid in it, and a nearly-empty pill bottle on the nightstand.

"Betsy!" he yelled, looked around, and then went through the only other door he could see – the one to the master bathroom.

The bathtub was full of water. Betsy lay in it, nude, her knees bent and her head completely under the water.

Dean lunged, grabbed the woman under her armpits and lifted. Water cascaded off of her body and out of the tub, but as he pulled her feet over the edge of the tub he noticed something else – water running out of her nose and mouth.

He jerked upward, sharply, on her underarms. More water came out of her. He put her on the carpeted bedroom floor, knelt astride her and compressed the center of her chest with both hands.

Water burbled from her mouth, along with a little sound. Her eyes half-opened, rolled, and closed.

She was breathing, but unconscious. He tried slapping her face gently and calling her name, but she lay unresponsive.

He pulled out his phone and called 911. "Yeah, we've got a gal here who was in the bathtub underwater, I think she has pills and maybe booze in her. She's breathing on her own now, but I can't get her to wake up."

He answered several questions, disconnected, and stood just as Clark came into the room, followed by Casey. "My God!" Clark exclaimed. "What happened?"

Dean made another call. "Sam? Betsy's here, full of pills and booze. She was drowning in the bathtub. Yeah. She's breathing now, but still unconscious. I called 911. Would you go to the road and make sure the ambulance knows where to turn? In the master bedroom, upstairs. They're standing right here. No, I'm fine. You go – OK, thanks. See you in a few."

He pocketed the phone, slammed open the closet door, and looked in it as Casey went to the nightstand and turned the pill bottle in her hands and Clark knelt beside Betsy.

"These are the pills she was prescribed the night Nick was killed," Casey said. "She must have taken them."

"And now your prints are all over the bottle. Where I'm sure they weren't before. Clark, if you touch her I swear to God I'll break your arm."

Clark pulled back a little, looking up at Dean with a concerned expression. Dean found a big thick burgundy robe – clearly it had been Nick's – in the closet, took a couple of steps and dropped it over Betsy. He knelt and rolled her gently from side to side, wrapping it around her, checking her breathing.

As he did, Clark said, "Are you blaming me for this, too? Even if Jess didn't show you that letter, don't you understand from what happened this morning that someone else killed Nick? And now you're blaming me because his grieving widow tried to kill herself?"

"Hey, Betsy?" Dean said. "Stay with us, Betsy. Help's coming. Hang in there."

He was still talking to her, and she was still unconscious but breathing, when Sam, at a dead run, led the paramedics up the stairs.

.

An hour and a half later, Dean was sitting at a long curved booth on the second floor of a downtown restaurant called Genovese, looking at a photo of a striking blue sky streaked with white clouds, as he talked about art with Balthazar's friends.

As weird a transition as this was, it was made less weird by two factors. The first was this exchange between Dean and Cas, in a phone call from Dean at the hospital:

"Of course I want to join you," Cas said. "I'll hop on – "

Then he hesitated. Then he said, "Can you leave long enough to come get me? I'd like to have you join us, if you have a few minutes."

"Oh, I don't know – "

"I didn't tell Balthazar that you'd be back in a week, because I didn't want to blow your cover, so to speak. I think he thinks you're gone for good."

"I'll be right there," Dean said, and disconnected as Cas, with a quirk to his mouth, said, "And the second reason I'd like you to be here – "

The second factor in Dean's decision to lunch with Balthazar and friends was lunch. He hadn't eaten since 6:00 a.m. A few chili flakes and bread crumbs were all that remained of a meatball sandwich he had wolfed down while the others began their coffee and dessert.

"So, you were just pretending to join this cult? Why?" Xavier asked, as Balthazar studied his espresso cup, looking superior.

Dean finished chugging a glass of water. "Research. For a project."

"I thought you were a mechanic," Wren said.

"Well, you don't need to be in college to have a project."

"True."

"What's the project?" Xavier asked.

"Well – I can't really talk about it till it's completely over. It involves a friend. But I'm hoping it's all over pretty soon."

"How is Jess?" Cas asked.

"Pretty bad shape. I'll tell you about it later. But I think talking to you would do her a lot of good."

"Don't know about that. But sure, I'd be happy to talk to her."

There was a moment of silence. Then Dean asked the table generally, "How was the exhibit?"

There was a little ripple of sound around the table. "Trying too hard," Wren said.

"She was not. I thought the assemblages looked brilliantly casual," Barry said.

"Exactly," Wren responded. "Trying too hard to be casual."

"Really good use of negative space, though," Xavier said.

"Now that's something I've read once or twice and it was never really explained," Dean said to Xavier. "What is 'negative space'?"

There was a brief pause.

"It's like – the space around," Xavier said. "Um, you know."

"It's the space within and around an artwork where there is no art," Balthazar said, scowling at his cup. "It can provide a contrast, or a resting place for the eye."

"There was one sculpture," Cas said, "where there were some dents and points that didn't look much different from the rest until you looked at it from a particular angle, and then you saw a profile of a human face looking into the sculpture, as if she were saying, 'Here's the portrait of your society.'"

"Or maybe, 'I'm gonna rub your face in how much you waste until you see it,'" Dean said energetically. "It does sound kind of interesting."

"It's probably not the kind of thing you usually enjoy," Barry said.

"No, I'm not much for modern art. Landscapes, seascapes – Hey, have any of you ever been to the Gilcrease Museum in Tulsa?"

"Isn't that, like – Western art?" Wren asked, in the tone of one phrasing an insult delicately.

"Yep," Dean said happily. "So it's as much history as art. There's a painting of a Pony Express rider changing horses at a station in the middle of nowhere at night. There's a light at the station, and a couple of other guys there, but you can see around the station what the Pony Express rider is going out into, and it's – nothing. No paving, no buildings, no lights, no other people, just darkness and rough ground for miles. The guts of those guys. Risking their lives so other people can get mail."

He smiled at the waitress refilling his water glass, and went on, "There's one big room of nothing but oversized landscapes. The way they're painted, the perspective and the light – you can feel the awe of being there. You feel like you could walk into those mountains and just keep going for miles."

He took a drink of water, and Xavier said, "And then people moved in and screwed the whole thing up."

"American greed, gobbling up a whole continent," Barry said.

"I think greed is more human than specifically American, don't you?" Cas asked.

"I don't know," Wren said. "For a while the movie industry was specifically American, and look at Southern California now. Fame-obsessed, money-obsessed – "

" – surgically altered – " Barry added.

"Mm," Dean said with a little frown.

"Hey, I'd think you'd agree," Xavier said. "The pioneers who traveled over those mountains when your artists were painting them were tough people, willing to do some heavy-duty stuff. And of all people, you think there isn't a big contrast between those folks and the superficial types living there now?"

"Well, of course a lot of the pioneers were going west to try and get rich. So you can't really say there wasn't any greed involved," Dean said with a smile. "But if you're talking about the 'types' of people who live anywhere, you know, I think people find what they're looking for. If you're looking for superficial people in – at Oxford, you'll find 'em, and if you're looking for deep people in Beverly Hills, you'll find 'em. If you're looking for narrow-minded people in Seattle, you'll find 'em, and if you're looking for open-minded people in Colby, Kansas, you'll find 'em." He shrugged. "Anyway. Just my opinion."

He finished his water as Cas said, "If you're ready, Dean, I'd like to go talk to Jess now."

Dean stood very promptly, settled up with Balthazar for his meal, and said, "It was nice meeting you all."

"Nice meeting you, Dean," Wren said, and Balthazar said, "Cas? Could I talk to you for a moment before you go?"

Cas looked at Dean, who looked blank for a moment, then nodded toward the men's room. "Back in a moment."

"Excuse us, please," Balthazar said, and he and Cas stood and moved a few steps away from the table while the other three exchanged significant glances.

Balthazar said, "I – " broke off, raised his eyebrows. "This is unexpectedly difficult. I should – I've never understood how you could be happy with Dean. You're – You have so many gifts, and I thought he was – "

He was having a hard time phrasing it, but Cas didn't. "Stanley Kowalski."

"Well. Yes. I hadn't really engaged with him, as you know. I just wanted – " Balthazar raised an eyebrow. "I still think we're more intellectually compatible. But I think I understand."

"I thought you would."

Balthazar smiled a bit. "Perhaps I'll look for a nice mechanic."

"Then you haven't understood anything," Cas said gently. "The point isn't to find someone who does a particular thing or says the right things, or who needs you. The point is to find someone who is genuine to the marrow of his bones, someone who's not afraid to be himself and meet the world without – artifice. And yeah, of course, you need intellectual compatibility and to agree on values, but that's the first thing. To find someone who says what he means and acts on what he says."

Balthazar nodded, slowly.

"It took me years to understand that," Cas said, "and just as I started to realize it, I met Dean. That might've been coincidence, but I don't think so."

A quick smile went over Balthazar's face. "Well, I should get back to the table. Your place, three o'clock Monday?"

"I look forward to it. Or not. Subjunctives."

"They're only overwhelming until you know them. See you then."

Balthazar went back to the table. Cas looked around and spotted Dean, a few steps away from the men's room door, talking on his phone.

"No, you're not paranoid," he said. "Or maybe you are, but in a good way. Don't tell Jess, but I'm bringing Cas over. I thought it'd do her some good to talk to him. See you."

"Sam?"

"Yeah. You ready to go? Is your car here?"

"No, Balthazar brought everyone."

"Did he." Dean went down the steps before Cas, then turned as they reached the bottom, near the bar. "I think I get it, by the way. Why you kept telling me not to worry. They're kind of sad people."

"A little, yes."

They walked past the noisy crowded bar and went out the front door. "The thing is," Dean said as they headed for the Impala, "there are plenty of bright people around who don't spend their time trying to impress everyone with how cynical they are, and you'll meet them too."

"I already have. I knew many of them at the scholarship hall. As it happens, I live with one now."

Dean gave him a sideways smile. "OK. No more jealousy. End of subject."

"For. All. Time."

"Understood. What did Balthazar want to talk to you about?"

"He wanted to apologize for his mistaken impression of you."

"What'd he think I was?"

"Stanley Kowalski."

Dean looked puzzled for a couple of steps, then stopped dead. "The guy from 'Streetcar Named Desire'?" he exploded, then his face changed. "Yeah – compared to Balthazar, I suppose – But what does that make you? Blanche?"

"No, that makes me Stella."

"Either way. So wrong."

"The whole idea was wrong. He realizes that now."

Dean unlocked the passenger door of the Impala, then started toward the driver's side. "I'm gonna drive you home so you can pick up your car, then while you're at the hospital – "

"The hospital?" Cas exclaimed over the roof of the car, then got inside as Dean did. "Jess is in the hospital?"

"No. Betsy is."

"Nick's real wife?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you about the whole day. Good times."

By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex, Cas was gaping most satisfactorily. "You saved her life."

"Kind of."

"Kind of? You pulled her out of the water and re-started her breathing!"

"Yeah." Dean smiled. "It was great when she started, too. At the hospital they said they thought she must have been under for just a couple minutes, they don't think there was any brain damage from the lack of oxygen, but they can't be sure until she wakes up. The drugs and booze put her into a coma. They gave her some stuff called Narcan and hooked her up to a bunch of monitors and now it's just watch and wait."

"So you saved her life."

"Kind of," Dean repeated. "Really, it was Sam. The minute, I mean the instant, that I told him how Clark was harping on Betsy's depression, he realized Clark was laying the groundwork to kill Betsy and make it look like a suicide. I might've realized that, but even if it had been ten minutes later, it would've been too late."

"Or," Cas said, "you could've told Sam, Betsy's safe at the bakery for a few hours, let's have lunch and talk about what to say to her. He realized the problem; you realized the urgency. I think you make a great team."

Dean turned off the car and looked at Cas deadpan. "He has to be Robin. I get to be Batman."

"Of course."

"Anyway, after things settled down a little, Sam called Jess, to keep her posted. She insisted on coming to the hospital. Her friend drove her out there, so she's in the room with Sam. I figure you turn up, tell Jess you're there to give Sam a break, then ask her, you know, how it feels to have her whole religion kicked out from under her and get thrown out of it by murderers and she'd kind of lost her faith in it anyway. Something subtle like that."

"Got it. What are you going to do?"

"Make some calls. The Sheriff's office thinks it was an attempted suicide, so of course they're not guarding her. Sam and I are gonna set up a system where someone will be with Betsy 24/7 until this all shakes out. I'm gonna call Andy and Travis and Ash and Gordon – " There was a savage glint in Dean's sudden grin. "I kind of wish Clark would try to hurt a woman while Gordon's there."

"You'll put me on the schedule too, of course."

"Sure."

"Do you have Rachel's number? I'm sure she'd be glad to help."

"Yeah, I do. Great idea. Your sister doesn't suffer assholes gladly."

"So you don't think that this is the time to tell your suspicions to the authorities?"

"That's what we've got. Suspicions. An anonymous poem, a knife that anyone in Lifeblood could've got hold of. Clark and Casey have a woman who actually was grieving for her dead husband, who had pills and access to alcohol. And they've got a letter that points straight to Jess' dad for Nick's murder, and they'll use it if we give them any trouble. Besides," Dean said, "I got an idea this afternoon, before the feces hit the fan, of how we could get Clark or Casey to incriminate themselves."

Cas looked exasperated, then closed his eyes and said like a mantra, "I must have faith in Batman, I must have faith in Batman."

"Damn right."

Cas began to open the car door and Dean said, "Hey, hurry back, OK? It's been a damn long week. I can't wait to get my hands on you."

Cas turned back, put his lips to Dean's ear, and murmured, "As you would say, that goes double."

Dean's hands clenched on the steering wheel and he swallowed hard. With a grin, Cas got out and headed for his own car.

.

Cas hesitated when he walked into the hospital room. On the other side of a curtain drawn through the room, the sound of a TV set was muttering out of a small speaker. Sam and Jess were sitting by the bedside of a pale woman with long rumpled hair whose face looked somehow collapsed. Jess was looking at her face, rubbing her arm gently with her right hand. Sam was sitting at right angles to Jess, his back against the wall, asleep. And Jess' left hand was resting in his still upward-turned palm.

Then Jess turned her head, saw Cas, smiled and waved, and even that slight movement on her part woke Sam up.

"Hey, Cas," he said, stirring in his chair. "Hi. Um. How long have I been out?"

"A few minutes," Jess said.

Sam sat up straighter, looking at Cas with some embarrassment, and his hand slipped away from Jess'. "Don't know why I fell asleep. Jess is the one having the terrible awful no-good day."

"How late were you up last night reading?" Jess asked.

"Um," Sam reiterated.

"Go home and take a nap," Cas said. "Dean sent me to relieve you."

Sam nodded, stood, and stretched mightily. Cas cast an apprehensive glance at the ceiling.

"Call me if you need anything," he told Jess, indicating the phone on a ledge by the window.

She nodded, and, now pointing at Betsy, he looked at Cas. "You know not to leave her alone?"

"Dean filled me in. He's calling some of the guys to set up a schedule."

Sam nodded, patted Jess' shoulder, and said "Thanks" to Cas as he left.

Cas took Sam's chair, and Jess went back to looking at Betsy's face and patting her arm.

"Do you want me to get you a book? Or a magazine or something?"

"I keep thinking she'll wake up any minute," Jess said.

"Do they have any idea – "

"No. It's up to her body."

"I'd say you're having a lousy day, but it's obviously not as lousy as hers."

"No kidding."

"How do you suppose they did it?"

"I don't know."

"Is there any chance that she did actually try to kill herself?"

Jess took a deep breath and straightened, looking at Cas. "There's a chance. But I think that's what Clark and Casey are counting on people thinking. I really don't think she did this. For one thing, the night before, she gave me the key to the office – Do you know about this?"

"Dean told me that Betsy loaned you the key, and about the things you found there."

"Well, when she did that, she told me she wasn't spending much time in the office because the urn with Nick's ashes was too morbid. She said she liked working on the dishes we were painting because food is for the living, or something like that. That doesn't sound to me like a woman who's about to go join her husband in the afterlife."

"I suppose not."

"And I said to Betsy something about how lucky it was that she and Clark had each other as alibis, and she told him that. He must've thought I was suspicious. But then why he didn't try to kill me, I don't know."

Cas thought for a moment. "Well, if you die suddenly, Betsy might get suspicious herself and tell the authorities Clark wasn't with her at the time of Nick's murder. But if she dies, you can voice any suspicions you want, and it doesn't matter. Betsy will never recant the alibi."

"I feel so guilty," Jess said.

"Don't. No one could have seen where this was going."

"Except Sam, thank God."

"Thank God," Cas repeated, and let the phrase hang in the air.

And after a moment, shifting her gaze, Jess asked, "Did you always – Were you always – religious?"

"Well, yes." Cas smiled. "Mom and Dad are pretty experimental, spiritually, and my brothers and sisters sort of scoffed at that, but I always felt like – religions were doors. No matter how different they looked on the outside, if you opened them, God was behind most of them."

Jess nodded.

"Were you always religious?"

"I always believed in God," Jess said. "Mom and Dad were – well, pretty much everyone I knew growing up were Christmas-and-Easter Christians. You go to church on the big holidays and you pray if you're facing some kind of crisis, but you don't – it's not a big part of your life."

"And you wanted it to be a big part of your life."

"Really, you know, I kinda thought there was something a little wrong with me. Only fanatics want to spend a lot of time thinking about God. People who are passionate about their religion wind up alienated from their families and blowing things up."

She sighed. Cas watched her.

"Well. At least I didn't blow anything up."

After a moment, Cas said, "From what Sam and Dean tell me, your parents would love to re-establish contact with you."

"On their terms."

"What are your terms?"

"I want to be able to mention God to them without their looking at me like I'm – diseased, or something. I realize they don't want to talk about religion all day every day, but this is important to me now. It always was, really. And I spent my whole life thinking there was something wrong with me, something dark pulling me toward religion. I won't think that anymore."

"Was it religion in general that they objected to? Or was it – the form that it took with you?"

"No. Well." Jess smiled a bit. "When I was younger, they were a little contemptuous toward seriously religious people. But it's true, when I started talking about Lifeblood, discussing it when I'd go home for a weekend or they came here to visit, they'd kind of withdraw. They weren't rude, but I could tell they were still contemptuous, only now it wasn't of someone else's beliefs, it was of mine. And I told myself that they really needed to hear about God, they'd shut Him out of their everyday lives, and kept pushing it. Lately I've wondered if I was just angry with them. They were pushing their casual attitude toward worship on me, fine, I'd push my devotion right back at them. The whole thing kept escalating, and Nick kept telling me they could never really understand me. And it felt like that. It still does. I suppose it's all right if they don't fully understand. But it's never going to be the situation again where I feel kind of ashamed for having a religious impulse. Even if I should be."

Cas looked puzzled. "You feel like you should be ashamed of having a religious impulse? Didn't you just finish saying that you shouldn't?"

"Well – as you say, the form it took. Thinking that I could make contact with God through a human being. So pathetic."

"Don't be – " Cas began, but she forged ahead suddenly, her voice quiet and broken. "I'm having a real hard time letting go of it. I finally admitted to myself what, what a fraud Nick was, just a few days ago. And I still want – I want to ask Nick about what I should do now, I want to feel like the answer's being channeled from God. I want that – certainty. Even though I know better. I want to be with a group of people who feel that certainty. I didn't – Maybe I never really had a religious impulse. Maybe I just had a hero-worship impulse." She looked at Cas with a little smile beneath tears. "Tell me I'm not the only one who ever insulted God by thinking I was worshipping Him."

Cas returned the smile. "I don't think God gets insulted that easily."

He leaned back a little in his chair. "The day after Hitler was named Reich Chancellor of Germany, Dietrich Bonhoeffer gave a talk on the radio about the concept of 'Fuhrer' – leader. Basically, he said that a leader who pretends to be a perfect idol is actually a misleader."

"Oh, that must've gone over well."

"His microphone was mysteriously cut off while he was speaking. But the thing that caught me when I read about this is that he said something like, Of course a leader's followers want him to be an idol. At the time I thought, well, sure, in post-World-War-I Germany they do. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this was a pretty universal statement. It's so rare that you run across someone you want to follow, you admire the stands they take and the way they put things. I think we always wish that person were the perfect – the personification of everything we admire. And people who think, well, I'd never be that way, are the most vulnerable when someone comes along who appeals to them."

He chuckled. "It actually clicked when I was talking with my adviser, being very vehement about something, and he said, 'You know, Bonhoeffer was just a human being.' And I realized – God, he was right. My adviser, but also Bonhoeffer. I wanted him to be an idol." He shrugged. "Bonhoeffer wouldn't have wanted people's hero worship, but there are people who do. And there are a lot of people, a lot of us, who want to idolize. We want that guy to be perfect, like we're being elevated through him, like we're touching God through him. So, you know, Jess, you're not even close to being the only one who ever felt like that."

Jess sighed shakily. "I'm – I guess I'm afraid that – I'll never feel inspired again. Or courageous."

Cas thought for a moment. "Do you think that Nick was the source of your inspiration, or your courage?"

"Well – "

She looked at Cas with eyes that seemed suddenly clearer. "I thought he – Well, no. He wasn't."

"I think Nick knew how to help you draw on inspiration and courage. But he wasn't the source."

"No. But it felt like that, you know. To someone who didn't know how to – approach God. Did you – Have you ever struggled with approaching God?"

Cas looked a little blank. "Well – Of course, this is just me. I don't know what everyone's spiritual experience is. I don't think we're even all supposed to have the same spiritual experience. But for me, personally, to ask about approaching God, it's kind of like – approaching air. I mean, it's there, it's all around. You become more aware of your breathing when you're quiet and meditative, but I mean, the air is there the whole time."

Jess nodded thoughtfully. "I like that."

There was a moment of silence. Then Jess asked, "That speech – that's not why they executed Bonhoeffer, was it?"

"Oh, no. That was years later, when the Nazis found some notes about the plot to kill Hitler."

After a moment, she said, "We have it so damn easy."

"We really do."

She pulled in and released a deep breath. Her head lowered just a little, and she closed her eyes. Cas shifted his sober gaze to Betsy's face.

.

Clark's voice, on the phone, sounded curt. "Hello."

Jess' voice, on the other hand, was sensually lush. "The imperfection at your waist I kissed / Perfected my rebellion, and I fell. / Descent into your warm and moving flesh / Meant rising on a Stygian tidal swell. . ."

There was a moment of dead silence.

Then Clark said, "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"In your handwriting? I think it means a lot. With an angry note from Nick at the bottom of the page? I think the Sheriff's deputies would find it deeply meaningful."

Another moment of silence, much shorter. "What do you want, Jess?"

"You know what I want. Destroy all the copies of my dad's letter and give the original to me. I'll destroy all copies of your poem and give the original to you. Even-steven trade."

Another moment. "All right. Come to Heartland tonight, and we'll – "

"Yeah, that'll happen. The McDonald's on 23rd Street, three o'clock this afternoon. That's about as public as it gets."

"Fine. Three o'clock."

Jess disconnected, and Dean said in a cautionary tone, "You know, he's not really going to destroy his copies."

"Well, we're not destroying ours either, so – "

He nodded with a rueful smile.

.

Sitting in a McDonald's booth beside Jess, Dean snorted with laughter as he put his cell phone into his pocket. "That was Sam. The best – Tell you later."

Jess looked where Dean was looking. Clark had just walked into the restaurant, looking left and right. He started toward Jess, then stopped with a disgusted look at Dean, then continued over to their booth and sat opposite them.

"Are you two joined at the – " Clark began, then looked at Dean. "Was that a lie too? Abut your being homosexual?"

"No, that was true. One of the good things about being gay is, you can be friends with a woman without obsessing over the sexual stuff." He grinned. "Want to know the other good things?"

"OK, come on, Dean. I want to get this done." Jess put the poem on the table in front of her, her hand flattened over it.

Clark followed her lead with Al's letter. Then, so smoothly it looked like they'd rehearsed it, they pushed their documents across the table, transferred their hands, and pulled the documents they wanted toward them.

Dean shook his head. "Should've got money for it."

"Dean," Jess said reprovingly.

"They've got the money. And what you gave him is worth a lot more than what he gave you."

Clark looked at him with a trace of amusement. "Easy to say when it's not your father."

"Give me a break, Clark," Dean said. "I'm the Sheriff. I've got two pieces of paper that seem to incriminate two different people. One of them is a cult member who left his job under a cloud – " Clark blinked noticeably – "and is itching to get his hands on the cult's bank account. And the other one is a CPA in Overland Park, married, a father, with a spotless record. Except for one pissed-off letter like dozens of other people wrote, there's not one iota of evidence against him. Gee, who's a more logical suspect?" He looked back at Jess. "You sold that thing cheap."

"I don't care. I wanted Dad's letter, now I have it. Now that's enough, Dean. I know there's nothing else to implicate him. I only wanted the one thing that could."

"Then it was a fair exchange," Clark said, and stood. "I'll pray for you, Jess. The hardness and bitterness of the Misled are showing up in you already."

He left as Dean gaped at him. They watched him go out the door.

"What do you think?" Dean asked. "Did he take the bait?"


	9. Chapter 9

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much, SPN Mum and Jeanny, for your consistent reviews and support for this story. I hope that both of you have a fantastic New Year!

.

"I always had a hard time reading Clark. I guess we'll see." She looked back at Dean. "What was Sam calling about?"

Dean chortled. "Must've been just before he came here, Clark went to Betsy's room."

Jess couldn't see the humor. "Was there someone there?"

"Oh, yeah. Apparently God listens to me in spite of everything. It was Gordon."

"Did they – Was he – "

"Nothing physical. But apparently the visit was really, really brief."

Jess chuckled, then sighed. "I want her to wake up so much."

"She will," Dean said. "She will."

.

At 6:30 the following Tuesday morning, Al Moore let a blonde woman into his office and followed her in. "I appreciate your coming in so early," he told her, as she sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. "As I told you yesterday, my day is booked up, but I do want to get started on your matter as soon as possible."

The woman's voice was a little helpless, as she hefted a large tote bag onto the chair next to her. "Have you ever had any other client who didn't pay their taxes for ten years?"

"I've had other clients who were delinquent." Al's tone, as he sat at his desk facing her, was reassuring. "The important thing is that you realized this was a problem, and you're doing something about it. We'll get it worked out."

The woman yawned, suddenly and hugely. "Oh, I beg your pardon. I'm not a morning person. Is there any coffee?"

"I think I can work the coffeepot," Al said with a smile. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Both, please."

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said. "Meantime," he stood and put a two-page document in front of her, "please fill out this intake form. I'll give it to my assistant when she comes in."

He left. The blonde woman paid no attention to the form, instead looking around the office.

The bookshelves were bare, although there was a confused and precarious-looking stack of books and papers on top of the filing cabinet. The credenza behind Al's desk was almost as empty as the bookshelves, sporting only a couple of tax reference books between bookends in the shape of oversized golf balls.

The woman glanced at the door, then rose and went to the credenza. She grabbed a tissue from Al's desk, put it over her fingers and tried to open the credenza. It was locked. So was the filing cabinet, when she tried it. The shallow pencil drawer of Al's desk was locked too, but the top side drawer slid open when she tried it. She tried the large drawer below that, and it opened too.

She dug something white out of her jacket pocket. It was a washcloth wrapped around a small dark object. She knelt and put her hand far into the bottom drawer of the desk, withdrawing only the empty washcloth, which she stuffed into her jacket pocket as she stood. She closed the drawer and moved to the client chairs, picking up her tote bag.

And Sam, who'd watched the whole thing on a computer screen two office doors down, said, "Go."

Dean and Jess, standing in the doorway, launched themselves into the hall and confronted the woman just as she stepped out of Al's office.

"Hello, Casey," Jess said gravely.

Casey's face was a study in fast thinking. Shocked surprise was replaced by realization, then anger, and then an assumed indifference.

"'Scuse me," she said brusquely, and pushed past them, starting down the hall.

"You can go," Jess said. "But don't you want to hear about the camera in the office?"

Casey stopped and turned, and just at that moment Al stepped out of the break room. "Did you get it?" he asked Jess.

She nodded, and he gave Casey a flat angry look before he told them, "I'm going to tell Cas he can stretch his muscles now."

"Thanks," Dean said, and smiled at Casey. "You remember Cas. He's curled up under a blanket in the back seat of Al's car with a camera, in case you tried to plant the cell phone there."

Sam came into the hall carrying a roll of duct tape. "Hey, Casey. The blonde wig works for you. You should go back to it after you get out of prison," he said, and headed back to Al's office.

The anger and confusion were back on Casey's face. "Was – that was – "

"Sam," Jess said. "He came to a couple of meetings, you might remember."

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, following Sam into Al's office.

"Come on back," Jess told Casey, and Casey followed her stiffly.

Sam was attaching a long strip of duct tape to the top of Al's desk, running it over the drawers to seal them shut, and attaching the other end under the desk. "You've still got the camera pointed at the desk, right?" Dean was saying. "Everyone's going to be able to look at the recording and see that no one else put anything in there."

"I just want to reinforce the point visually," Sam said, standing.

"What the hell is going on?" Casey snapped.

"Well, when Clark and Jess exchanged papers day before yesterday, we did a big song and dance about how many reasons there were to suspect Clark and how there was essentially no evidence against Al," Dean said.

"And Dean made sure to mention that Dad was a CPA in Overland Park," Jess said. "We really didn't know if you guys would take the bait and try to plant some evidence. But we told Dad to be waiting for a call from someone who wanted to see him real fast and preferably alone."

"So when a woman called yesterday with this urgent tax problem, he asked if she'd be willing to come in at 6:30 a.m. When you agreed like a shot, we were pretty sure that was you."

"Last night, we set up a camera here." Sam carefully parted a stack of papers from a couple of books on top of the filing cabinet, showing the camera lurking among them. "We got a real good shot of the desk drawers and the floor in front of them. So then it was just a matter of making sure that that was where you put Nick's cell phone."

Jess continued, "We cleared out the bookshelves and the top of the credenza, and made sure everything was locked but the two drawers that the camera was focused on. If you were going to hide Nick's phone anywhere, it would have to be in one of those drawers."

Casey bit her lips, then shrugged. "I wanted to see if he had any important clients," she said. "I shouldn't have looked at the files in the drawer, I admit it. But if someone's phone is in there, it was there already."

"Good try," Sam said approvingly.

"Except that we got a good camera view of the completely empty insides of both drawers last night," Dean said. "Then we showed the camera exactly what we were putting in there – file folders with nothing but papers and some empty envelopes and notepads. Then we closed the drawers, left the light on in the office, and left the camera going all night. We have a timed digital record that nothing is in those drawers except what we put in there last night and what you put in them just now."

"Well – " As Cas and Al appeared in the doorway, Casey started to look a little panicked. "Well, so what if I put a phone in a drawer?"

"Nick's cell phone," Jess said in a hard tone. "The one that disappeared the night he was murdered. What were you going to do? Just phone in an anonymous tip that my dad had it?"

Casey swore in a very unreligious manner. "You can't prove that anything is Nick's phone."

"Really?" Dean asked. "It hasn't got any of Nick's blood on it? None of Nick's fingerprints? 'Cause otherwise, what would be the point of planting it?"

There was a moment while Casey absorbed the situation.

"I'm calling the Sheriff's office right now, Casey," Jess said. "We're not going to keep you here. You can go back to Heartland and wait for them. Or you can talk to them here. Or – I'm not sure what other options you have."

"She could try to make a run for it," Dean said helpfully. "People love watching police chases on TV."

Casey glanced back and forth between Dean and Jess. She took a breath, and for a moment it looked like she might start walking.

Then she let the breath out and sank down in one of the visitor's chairs. She looked up at Jess.

"I didn't know Clark was going to kill him, you know," she said.

"Oh, here we go," Dean said, as Jess picked up the phone.

.

That Friday, in a handsome restaurant with muted lighting and muted jazz music, four men sat at a large square table. Bobby and Cas were halfway through their steaks; Sam was halfway through his trout amandine. Dean still had most of his steak left, because he'd been doing most of the talking.

"So what would you have done if they hadn't gone for it?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged. "Just gone to the Sheriff with what we had. Jess' info about the knife, a copy of Clark's poem with Nick's note, the fact that Betsy mysteriously attempted suicide the day after Jess implied that she was suspicious about Clark's alibi. It wouldn't have been much, but – " He put a piece of steak in his mouth.

"Isn't Jess in trouble, waiting so long to tell them about the knife?"

Sam said, "She told them that something about it rang a bell with her when she found Nick's body, but she was so freaked out at the time that she didn't really think about it. She said it wasn't until just now that she remembered where she'd seen it before."

"And besides," Dean said with a grin, "they were a little too busy to worry about whether Jess was lying about her own memory. By that time, Clark and Casey were so busy rolling on each other, they had half the deputies out lookin' for gym mats."

The table chuckled, and Sam shot an amused look at his brother. "How long did you work on that joke?"

"Two, three minutes."

"I think it's really fortunate that they took your bait," Cas said. "Clark and Casey made some mistakes, but they also planned very well, especially given that they had very little time every time they committed a crime. Casey told us, before the detectives got there, that they weren't just planning to tip off the police that Al had the phone."

"Yeah, this was good," Sam said.

"Just before she went in to see Al," Cas continued, "Casey made a call on Nick's phone to Clark – keeping her fingerprints off of the phone, of course. After she'd got away from the office, Clark was going to call the police and say that Al had made a threatening phone call to him, and that he recognized the telephone number as Nick's."

"Why would the cops believe that Al threatened Clark?" Bobby asked. "Clark kicked Jess out of the cult, like Al wanted."

"Ah, but she was a brainwashed emotional mess who still loved Lifeblood, you see," Cas said with a smile. "Clark was going to say that Al had told him, Either Lifeblood sends me enough money to pay for Jess' therapy, or you follow the Messenger to Lifeblood Heaven."

"But Al could just tell the cops that he'd left a woman alone in his office who left after five minutes, and she could've planted the phone."

"Ah yes, the mysterious blonde client no one else ever saw or spoke to," Sam said. "I doubt if the Sheriff's office would've bought Clark's story lock, stock and barrel, but Al's wouldn't have sounded great either. And that would've been even before they found out that Al was in Lawrence without an alibi on the night of the murder."

"Of course," Cas said, "since Dean and Sam saved Betsy's life, the whole thing would have been pointless anyway, but at the time, Clark and Casey had no idea that Betsy would recover."

"So she did wake up?" Bobby asked.

"Wednesday, the day after Casey confessed," Sam said.

"And she did tell the police that she lied about Clark's alibi?"

Dean nodded. "She remembered Clark and Casey trying to kill her, so, you know, she decided that maybe Clark didn't deserve protection."

"She remembered being put in the water?"

"No. But she remembered that Casey asked her to hold off going to the bakery that day, so they could discuss something urgent and private. This was after Betsy had told Clark about her conversation with Jess. Apparently Casey gave her some bull story about finding evidence that Jess killed Nick. Of course that was really upsetting to Betsy. After they'd been talking about it for awhile, Clark comes in with orange juice for all three of them – you know, everyone calm down, let's have a refreshing drink and just think about it. Of course Betsy didn't know that he'd just got back from dumping me and Jess on the side of the road. Betsy had some of the orange juice and started feeling sick and groggy."

"Then Casey tells Betsy that she's sick and these pills are her medicine, she needed to take them to feel better. She thinks she took a couple on her own. But she also remembers Casey hugging her and Clark standing over her and something that tasted terrible."

"They put ground-up pills into booze and poured it down her throat," Bobby said.

"And did it as gently as possible, so they wouldn't leave bruises," Dean said, stabbing his baked potato as if it were a voodoo doll. "It makes you mad to think about it, but the upside is, trying to restrain Betsy without bruising her, it took them a lot of time to do it that way."

"I'm surprised they thought they'd get away with it," Bobby said. "If she died and they did an autopsy, wouldn't they be able to tell that the pills were ground up before she swallowed them?"

"Actually, no," Sam said. "I asked about that. Once the pill coating dissolves, which happens almost as soon as it hits the stomach acid, they can't tell the difference between pills that were swallowed whole and pills that were ground up."

"Gotta feel sorry for the woman," Bobby said. "I think she's a sap, staying married to that character for so long, but she's been betrayed by just about everyone she trusted."

"Except Jess," Sam said.

"And Sue-Ann," Dean added. "I went by to see her yesterday, after work. Sue-Ann was there, and they were talking about how to keep Lifeblood going."

"How did she seem?"

"Sad, subdued. But she was sweet to me, thanked me for pulling her out of the water. I told her it was Sam who figured out that she was in danger, and she said she'd like to thank him personally." Dean smiled a little. "Sue-Ann didn't know how to act. They figured out that I was there under false pretenses, and Sue-Ann was really pissed about it, but at the same time she was grateful Betsy was alive, so she really didn't know how to deal with me."

"So they are going to try to keep Lifeblood going?" Cas asked.

"I guess," Dean said. "A deputy took Jess down to Heartland so she could pick up her and my personal property, and she said it felt like a ghost town. Eve and Rosco moved out, and she got the feeling that Dirk and Gloria might. With Nick dead, and Clark and Casey in prison – "

"Is Jess goin' back?" Bobby asked.

Everyone looked at Sam.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I know she wants to help Betsy and Sue-Ann with whatever comes next. She's sure that membership and donations are going to drop like rocks, and it's gonna be really hard to build the New Mexico compound. They're probably going to have to sell the land and stay here in Lawrence. She wants to help keep the bakery going, it's kind of her baby, but she's also thinking about going back to college, so she couldn't spend as much time at Baked. And you know, she was giving most of her salary to Lifeblood, but now she wants to earn enough money to pay her own way. And of course, that's all on top of the fact that she doesn't think Nick was the Messenger of God anymore. She's kind of going day to day right now."

"Where's she livin'?"

"With her parents. They're actually getting along pretty well, but Jess says it's like they're all tiptoeing on eggshells around each other. She thinks it'll be better when she gets her own place. Right now, though, she's spending so much time in Lawrence dealing with Baked and planning with Betsy and Sue-Ann and Max, job hunting would be really tough."

"Sounds like you two are talkin' a lot," Bobby said.

"Well – We – Well – "

Dean grinned, and Sam looked embarrassed. "It's kinda weird. It's like, we both feel like we sort of got burned in our last relationship, so we want to talk to our best friend about it. Except we're the last relationship and we're the best friend. So – yeah. I don't know where we're goin' from here. But we're talking. And she still – I still have better conversations with her than almost anyone."

"That's important," said Cas, with a smile at Dean.

"How's Karen?" Dean asked Bobby.

"She's just fine, havin' a girls' night out. But I'm supposed to fill her in on everything when I get back."

"Now that'll be a conversation," Sam said.

Dean raised his beer glass. "A toast. To Jess Moore, who, on one of the worst days of her life, walked a mile and a half at four in the morning with one piece of information, and wound up catching two murderers."

They all drank, then Sam raised his soda glass. "To Dean, who went along with Jess' wild scheme and wound up catching two murderers."

Sam, Cas, and Bobby all took a drink, then Dean raised his glass again. "To Cas, who, I don't know what he said, but I could tell he made Jess feel better, and he put up with a lot of – " He blinked and looked at Cas suddenly. "I still owe you a birthday day trip."

Cas chuckled. "You've been a little preoccupied." He raised his wine glass. "To Sam, whose investigations were vital."

"I want to make a toast to all three of you guys," Bobby said, raising his beer glass. "My life would be so much duller without you."

They all clinked glasses, happily toasting themselves, then focused on their food.

.

About ten weeks later, in mid-December, the Impala crept down a residential street in Lawrence. Dean, at the wheel, looked at the addresses on a couple of houses he passed, shot a glance at a piece of paper with directions on it that lay on the seat next to him, said "Damn," looked back at the road, then looked at the addresses again.

Then his eyes flew open. He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped it, looking at one of the 1930s-era homes lining the street.

The two-story house was part stone and part wood, rather run down. But the dormant grass was litter-free, it looked like there was a coat of fresh paint on the door of the single-car garage, and lights were on in the downstairs front room. It looked like it would be a nice place to take refuge from the gray sky, leafless trees, and cold air outdoors.

A porch with pillars supporting an overhang fronted the house. Suspended from the front of the overhang was a long banner featuring a blood drop holding the world, surrounded by the words, "The World Enslaves – Perfection Saves."

For a moment, Dean hesitated. Then he turned off the car and got out, walking up the driveway to knock on the front door, a dubious expression on his face the whole time.

The dubious look vanished when the door opened and Betsy exclaimed in her soft voice, "Oh, Dean!", then threw her arms around him.

"Betsy. It's great to see you. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Dean, thank you. How are you?"

"Doin' good. I was driving around looking for some organic food store Sam likes, thought a gift card would make a good Christmas present. Then I saw the banner, and I just thought I'd check it out."

"I'm so glad you did. Can you come in for a moment?"

"Sure."

She let him into a living room with one weak ceiling fixture, but two bright lamps on end tables at either end of a sofa he recognized from Heartland's formal living room. The same coffee table sat in front of it, and an upholstered chair sat at one end of the coffee table. There were bookshelves, two smaller chairs, and a long side table with drop-leaves that bore a lace runner and a bowl of apples.

Betsy took the chair at the end of the coffee table. Dean suddenly noticed that there was a plate with a sandwich and a peeled orange and a glass of water on the coffee table, in addition to a Bible and a copy of Nick's book. "I don't want to interrupt your lunch."

She beckoned him to sit on the sofa. "It's not hot, it'll wait."

Dean, lowering himself onto the sofa, pointed at her dish and grinned. "Hey, you got 'em finished!"

"I did! It was about the time that we sold the land in New Mexico, so we used these as dishes at Heartland until we had to give that up too."

"But, I'm assuming from the banner, you're still keeping Lifeblood going."

She looked a little shocked. "Of course. A spiritual movement that folded because it lost property wouldn't be spiritual."

"True. And this house has a nice feel to it. Kinda cozy."

"Thank you." She smiled. "The house is actually mine. One of the deputies told me about a safe deposit box I didn't even know Nick had. It was full of records of so many investments in his name, payable on death to me. I felt bad about that. Nick always said that everything he had went back to Lifeblood. When I bought the house I thought about putting it in the name of Lifeblood, even though I'd be living here. But our lawyer – with all the property changing hands and all the other issues, we needed a lawyer. And he said that he'd advise me to get another lawyer for myself, because a lawyer for me personally would advise me to put the house in my own name, in case the Board – well, in case there was another – situation. Well. I didn't get another lawyer, but I did put the house in my name. This way Lifeblood can use it as much as I want, but no one can vote me out of it. It makes me feel better, even though I know it makes me a hypocrite."

"I don't think so," Dean said promptly. "If you wound up with, like you say, another situation – another Clark and Casey on the Board – and they threw you out, who's to say they'd use the house for Lifeblood stuff? They might just have parties and call them religious meetings. You and Lifeblood would both lose. This way, even if you are owning property, you know it's being used for religious purposes."

She gave him a fond look. "You're so clever. I have the feeling that if I'd said I'd given the house to Lifeblood, you'd have told me why that was a good idea, to make me feel good."

"Nah, I don't – So, do other Lifeblood members live here?"

"Max did, for a while. When Heartland was sold, he was horribly upset. But I think that after a few weeks he was a little embarrassed to be living with two middle-aged ladies. He got a job doing something technological very easily, so he has his own place near here. And he comes to worship twice a week, every week. Sue-Ann lives here. She insists on paying rent. She got a job as an assistant store manager. She was manager of a Macy's store before she left to join Lifeblood, you know."

"No, I didn't know. But I'm not surprised."

"She's very realistic. The other day a young woman came by who knew about us from the internet and wanted to live here. I think she thought that the widow of the Messenger might be a soft touch, but – Well, and maybe she was right," Betsy admitted. "But Sue-Ann had her admitting pretty quickly that she was just looking for free housing."

Dean chuckled. "So you're keeping the website going?"

"Oh, yes. Max runs it. We talk about what will be on it every week."

"And you still have the services twice a week?"

"Yes. We're getting some new members, but sometimes we see the – Oh, Dirk and Gloria came to the Wednesday meeting last week."

"Are they regulars?"

"Oh, I'm afraid not. But their schedules are unpredictable. Dirk works in construction and Gloria's a waitress. They get here when they can. Did you know they got engaged?"

"No, that's great. Give 'em my congratulations, would you?"

She gave him a look of cunning encouragement. "You could maybe congratulate them yourself if you came to a service."

"Oh, Betsy, thanks, but – you know, this just isn't my religion."

After a moment, she nodded understandingly. "But you do have one?"

"Yeah, you know, I'm not as intense about it as Cas or Jess, but I know what I – what I believe, and don't believe."

"Who's Cas?"

"He's my partner."

She was trying to ask an uninflected question, but the disappointment was evident in her voice. "So, that part was true, then?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. Except I'm not really 'afraid' so. I don't think that being gay is sinful. So, one of the reasons why you – why I probably wouldn't fit in too well at Lifeblood services."

She sighed a little, then looked at him with a change of expression. "You mentioned Jess. Have you talked to her lately?"

"Yeah. She's in pretty steady touch with Sam. Dad came into Lawrence a couple weeks ago and he and Sam and Cas and me drove into Kansas City to have dinner and see the Plaza lights, and we ran across Jess and her folks doing the same thing."

"She was so helpful with selling the real estate and closing the bakery. I don't know what we'd have done without her."

"I miss Baked," Dean said fervently.

"So do I. I enjoyed working there. But we just couldn't keep it going without Lifeblood members." She was rueful. "It's much easier to keep a business going when the workers are tithing most of their salary back to the spiritual movement that owns it."

Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"Since things have settled down, I haven't seen Jess at all. But I understand, she had to focus on her own life. Is she all right?"

"Yeah, she's doing pretty well, working and getting some counseling."

"Why does she need counseling?"

Clearly, Dean hadn't expected the question. "Oh. Well, she, you know. Adjustments."

"She doesn't have to make adjustments. She knows she's perfectly welcome back at Lifeblood any time."

Dean nodded.

"I suppose – the shock of – Casey and Clark – I suppose that gave her doubts."

"Well – you could understand that."

"They didn't give me doubts. But – "

She seemed to retreat into herself for a moment, and Dean watched her.

"I don't understand. I pray for understanding, but it hasn't been given to me yet. How could they do that? People who were blessed with knowledge of the Messenger. How could they slaughter him like that?"

"I don't think anyone understands stuff like that, Betsy. Part of the mystery of being human beings."

"Nick would have been able to – "

She broke off suddenly, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I miss him so much. Every minute. I miss being close to the Messenger of God. And I miss my husband."

"I'm so sorry, Betsy."

She smiled through tears. "Sue-Ann is, she wasn't – She's more focused on Nick's human failings, so I can't really talk to her about Nick. And I don't know many other people that well. Do you suppose – Would Jess mind if I talked to her, sometimes?"

"About Nick? I don't – I know she'd like to help make you feel better, Betsy, but – I don't know if – " Dean made a decisive gesture. "You know what, just ask her if she feels up to talking about him. Jess is pretty straightforward. If she doesn't think she can handle it, she'll tell you. But I know she considers you a friend."

"Thank you, Dean." Betsy wiped her eyes with a hand. "She gave me her phone number when she was helping with the real estate. I'll call her sometime."

"So – you have a phone?" Dean asked in a gently teasing tone.

She smiled at him. "Now, Dean. You know we always had a phone at Heartland. Sue-Ann even has her own cell phone now. It's very useful for her job."

"Wooa! What's next, a TV set?"

To his surprise, her expression darkened suddenly and obviously. "I will be perfectly happy if I never see a television set again," she said sharply. "I saw some of the stories when I was in the hospital, and after. The things they said about Nick. About Lifeblood. The newspapers, too. One of them interviewed me and completely twisted what I said. Without ever even knowing Nick, they made him sound like the worst person possible, like he deserved to be horribly murdered. Any information coming from the Misled is misinformation."

After a moment, Dean said, "Sorry, Betsy. Didn't mean to hit a sore spot."

"It's not your fault. I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at them. Every time – "

She stopped suddenly, took a breath.

"But partly, that's my own failing."

She looked at Dean, sad eyes in a suddenly peaceful face.

"Before I met Nick, you know, my life was not very nice. I'm very angry a lot of the time. Nick helped me to deal with that, to turn that over to the Lord. People don't understand – Well – Infidelity hurts. It does. But in comparison to – Well. I nurture a lot of anger toward the Misled. That's why I lied to protect Clark. I was sure that the outsiders would try to frame him, to frame any of us, to hurt us for pulling away from them and being happy apart from them. I almost let Clark get away with killing Nick, because of my anger toward the Misled."

"Most of us are pretty decent people," Dean said.

"I don't know about 'most.' But some of you certainly are."

"Well." Dean cast another look at the coffee table. "I'll let you get back to your lunch."

He rose, and she stood with him, giving him a hug. "It was so good to see you again. Come by anytime."

"Say hi to Sue-Ann for me."

"And you say hello to my other angel."

"I'm goin' to a movie with Sam this weekend, so I will."

He edged out from behind the coffee table and stopped for a moment, caught by something sitting by itself in the center of one of the bookshelves. It was a simple white urn with a Lifeblood pendant on a chain hung around its neck. It was sitting in a glass case, which also contained a small sign that read:

Nicholas Munroe

Messenger of God

Martyr of Lifeblood

Beloved Husband

"Dear Lord, thank you for this nurturing food and warm shelter," Betsy said.

Dean looked over at her. Still standing, she had her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes closed and her head bowed. He walked quietly across the living room and opened the front door as she continued, "Thank you for the blessing of a visit from a friend. Please lead those living unhappy object-centered lives here, where they can find fulfillment. Thank you, Lord."

"Thank you, Lord," Dean repeated quietly.

She didn't open her eyes, but a little smile ran across her face. "Bless us, Lord."

"Bless us, Lord."

"Protect us from our inner demons."

Now the quick smile ran across Dean's face. "Protect us from our inner demons," he said, and headed for the Impala, closing the door gently behind him.

.

.

THE END


End file.
